


Rough enough for love

by Nekhen



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and a whole lot of smut, Gentle Dom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Getting Together, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Slow Burn, Sub Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2020-12-09 07:42:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 37
Words: 344,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20991281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nekhen/pseuds/Nekhen
Summary: “So, let me get this straight,” Crowley said, dragging thatra little for best effect. “Your librarian asks for an escort, and the first person you think of isme?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For your enjoyment (but especially my own), the Fake Relationship AU that no one really asked for. What can I say? I love my tropes.  
The title comes from Bruce Springsteen’s _Tougher than the rest_. I feel like I should’ve used a Queen’s song instead, but since I’m on a Springsteen bender and I’m an irredeemable sap, Springsteen is what you get. You’re welcome.  
If you decide to keep on reading, I truly hope you’ll find this story entertaining. Every comment is a blessing, and will be extremely appreciated.  
_Ciao!_

It was really not the place for that kind of conversation.

Now, Crowley harboured quite a few doubts whether that place actually existed, but he was fairly certain that the rundown kitchenette in which he was currently standing (well, gracefully slouching) was not it. Even cheap, flimsy tabloids whose best feature was the model in bikini on page two had some sort of workplace etiquette. After a fashion.

“So, let me get this straight,” he said, dragging that _r_ a little for best effect. “Your librarian asks for an escort, and the first person you think of is _me_?”

Crowley had an inkling that the most appropriate feeling for the situation would be _outrage_, but being appropriate wasn’t exactly his best suit, and for as many character flaws he tried and succeeded with frankly outstanding results to cultivate, hypocrisy wasn’t one of them. He tried to aim for incredulous, but he suspected he managed to land just short of amused.

“Oh, Crowley.” Anathema rolled her eyes in the practiced way of a woman who has to deal daily with the idiocy of the average fellow human, and is therefore well-versed in carrying the burden of being the only sensible, intelligent person in the room. It didn’t escape Crowley that the average fellow human, in that specific situation, was none other than him. “Don’t be an ass. He’s a friend, who also happens to be a librarian, and he doesn’t need an escort–just someone to accompany him to a wedding.” Anathema hesitated, long black lashes fluttering slightly as she looked away. “Oh, and he didn’t exactly _ask_.”

That sentence would’ve sounded plenty alarming, uttered by anyone else, but Crowley had known Anathema long enough to suspect that, if any coercion had taken place, the poor sod had probably been at the receiving end of it.

He cleared his throat, trying to keep his eyebrows under control before they shot over his forehead. At least the kitchenette was empty. Small mercies, he supposed.

“I see,” he drawled, leaning back a little further and bracing his weight onto the counter. He knew that his outstretched arms underlined his silhouette in a way that most people found enticing, and he’d never shied away from using his weaponized thin frame as the shameless deflecting strategy that it was, as often as he could get away with. It’d do nothing for Anathema, of course, unless he learnt to bend backwards in a way that defied every law of physics and could only be explained by demonic possession, but that wasn’t really the point. It simply came natural, by now. An automatic defence reaction, like flinching and protecting the soft bits when spying an upcoming blow. “Let me rephrase that: your friend-slash-librarian is in need of a fake boyfriend, and the first person you think of is me?”

“Now you’re _really_ being an ass.” There was just the subtlest hint of annoyance in Anathema’s voice, nicely drowned by a very real, almost solid wave of exasperation. “He doesn’t need a fake boyfriend either, just a plus one for a wedding.” She scoffed under her breath, before blowing gently over her steaming mug. “_Fake boyfriend_. You watch too many cheap sitcoms.”

Crowley shrugged.

“_Golden Girls_ is not cheap, and is still a riot.”

Anathema took a small sip of her coffee, studiously watching him from over the rim of her cup. She drank coffee the way he did, black and bitter, no milk and no sugar. One of the many reasons Crowley liked her. He also liked that her favourite mug was a huge, ugly thing in the shape of an octopus -a kraken, she’d corrected him with no little outrage when he’d dared question it-, delightfully tacky even for his standards, and that she seemed to have a bottomless stock of weird dresses and an obsession for horn-rimmed reading glasses.

The real reason he liked her, however, was much more mundane than that; it was positively boring. He liked her because she reminded him of himself, as he’d been–wide-eyed and almost unbearably young, and hopeful and angry and determined and full of ill-repressed energy, as though the world was about to end in a bang and she was sitting right on the lid of the biggest powder keg. Crowley was still angry, sometimes, and his nervous energy still thrummed under his skin on bad days like a drum pulled way too tight, but the rest was long gone. Lost in bits and crumbles, as the years slinked by.

“So.”

The silence had stretched on long enough that Anathema’s voice, soft and almost purring, started Crowley back to the present.

Purring. That was a pretty terrible omen, as far as bad omens went.

Anathema pressed her lips to the rim of her cup and took another sip, large brown eyes deep and wide and steady like those of a thing hunting in the night. The soft waves of her long chocolate hair made them look even bigger, somehow, and darker. She was wearing a dress that was way too thin for the season, an almost ephemeral thing made of delicate black lace and sensible cotton, with puffed sleeves and a skirt that reached demurely to below her knee.

“Are you interested?” she asked.

Crowley scoffed, pushing himself off the counter and straightening up. Great, his hands were sticky now, on top of everything. He didn’t want to know with what.

“Why would I _ever_ be interested?”

Anathema shrugged, feigning disinterest. She wasn’t particularly good at it, but Crowley had a nagging suspicion that that was bound to change, and much sooner than he would’ve liked it. Better to take home whatever victory he was able to cobble up while he still could.

“Well. The place’s supposed to be pretty beautiful, from what Aziraphale told me. Somewhere in Sussex. You could think of it as a free holiday.”

“Yes, because the reason I pay ludicrous amounts of money to stay in London is that I love the country so _much_,” Crowley sneered back, trying unsuccessfully to rub the suspicious stickiness off his hands. “And what sort of name is _Aziraphale_, anyway?”

“I like it, it’s unique. Never heard it before.”

“I doubt you’ll hear it again,” Crowley grumbled, looking around for a rag to wipe his hands with. There was one, close to the small, derelict sink, but it was a suspicious shade of grey that Crowley wasn’t particularly interested in investigating up close and personal. “And bloody _Sussex_? I’d rather pay for my holidays and go literally anywhere else on the planet, thank you very much.”

“Free food?” Anathema tried again, and then, realising that she was quickly losing ground, she hopefully added: “Free booze?”

Well, at least now they were getting somewhere. Crowley arched a brow and eyed her suspiciously.

“What kind of booze? Because heavy and cheap I can get here without all that trouble.”

“It’s a _wedding_, you lush, I doubt they’ll serve anything heavy and cheap,” Anathema grumbled, rolling her eyes.

“_Lush_? Careful, love. You’ve been here too long, you’re learning the lingo,” Crowley snickered in an exaggerated Cockney slur, thin lips opening in a huge grin. “And where will your lovely American accent go, if you let it?”

Anathema sniffed in exasperation, but she was quick on her feet again, changing the angle instead of firing back and allowing Crowley to derange the topic.

“Alright. Aziraphale, then.”

Oh. That sounded promising.

“What about your name-challenged friend?” Crowley purred, giving up on trying to get his hands less disgusting and leaning back on the counter again. His hands were already sticky, after all. At least the slouch was flattering on his frame. And if he were to freeze to death in a fashionably flimsy black shirt in that icy basement forgotten by men and God, he was going to milk it for all that was worth.

“You are the worst gossiper I know” Anathema flung back, tilting up her chin in a deliciously supercilious way. “Aren’t you curious to see for yourself which kind of person would need a fake boyfriend for a wedding?”

“I thought we’d established that he doesn’t need a fake boyfriend,” Crowley slyly pointed out. Anathema did a little one-shoulder shrug, making the flared rims of her lace sleeves flutter softly around her mug.

“That’s what I said, but I’m pretty sure you don’t really care.” Her voice dropped again, low and smooth, gently coaxing and subtly insidious. Crowley was impressed. Perhaps even a little proud. “I’m not asking you to say yes straight away. I’m asking you to consider the possibility. You could meet him. See for yourself what you’d be getting into. You like meeting new people, after all.”

Actually, Crowley hated meeting new people. What he liked was screwing them, which wasn’t exactly the same thing, but he certainly wasn’t going to correct Anathema on that particular point.

He tilted his head, studying Anathema’s carefully neutral expression. A sudden suspicion dawned into his mind.

“Are you trying to set me up with the guy?”

Anathema scoffed.

“Aziraphale doesn’t need _me_ to find a date,” she said, dark brows arched on her tanned forehead, as though the idea was absolutely ludicrous. Crowley noticed she hadn’t said that _he_ didn’t need her help to find a date. He tried very hard not to feel offended by that, though he allowed himself the luxury of a little peevishness. “I don’t think he’d want to drag a new partner in his family’s affairs. You know how nasty families can be.”

Crowley knew. Brief, unpleasant memories of Ligur and Hastur slashed through his mind. He chased them away with practiced ease in the blink of an eye.

“But it would be alright to drag _me_ into that?”

Anathema flashed him a bright, innocent smile. It was so obviously manipulative that Crowley found it endearing.

“You’re a tough one. You can take it.”

Crowley barked a laugh, almost against his will. He’d had blokes coming on to him in clubs on Friday nights wielding a subtler brand of flattery.

“C’mon, Crowley,” Anathema pressed on, sensing an opening and going for it. “You don’t actually have to go, if you decide not to. Just meet him. I know you want to.”

“I do, now?”

“Of course you do,” Anathema practically purred, stepping marginally closer. She was nowhere near enough to touch him, and yet Crowley almost felt like she was rounding up on him. Anathema smelt weakness like a shark smelt blood. “You’re curious, I know you are. And you’re bored. When was the last time something unexpected happened to you?”

“Mrs. Bank’s two-headed calf, I guess. I wrote quite a nice piece about it last month. Then, there was that bit of gossip about the first minister. And the royal family always has a delightful scandal for its loyal subjects to pass the time with.”

Anathema almost growled in exasperation. She would’ve thrown her hands up, hadn’t she been holding her mug in a grasp that was now positively vicious. She disliked not having her way. Crowley found that charming, and not at all because it was a trait they both shared.

“You’re just playing dumb, now. You _know_ what I mean. You were complaining about that not two months ago, how your life was boring and predictable and how you’d go out of your mind if something didn’t happen soon. Now, something is happening. You should jump at the chance, instead of being so unnecessarily difficult about it.”

Crowley remembered that conversation. It’d been just after another one-night stand had done the usual disappearing act on him. A nice enough bloke, nothing special, but apparently way too cool to give Crowley his number, or to send a stupid text to the number Crowley had given him. It didn’t matter, of course, because Crowley wouldn’t _let_ it matter, but it still stung. He’d never been particularly good at handling rejections, which was just ridiculous. He’d been receiving them for so long that he should’ve practically been a pro by now.

“Yes, well, being dragged into somebody else’s family drama was _not_ what I had in mind,” Crowley grumbled back, but he was wavering. He knew it, and most importantly, Anathema knew it.

“Better their drama than your own,” she said with a little shrug. “At least it’s new.”

“I don’t have _drama_ in my life,” Crowley protested, more because he felt like he ought to than any other pretended attempt at sticking to reality. “I’m the most drama-free person you’ll ever meet.”

“Please, you’d be a Shakespearean actor if you weren’t already writing for a shitty tabloid,” Anathema scoffed in return.

“Thank you, you’re ever so kind,” Crowley groused, but without bite. She wasn’t wrong. Especially about the paper.

“You know it’s true. Just like you know you’re too good for this place. But since you’re stuck here, doing the same mindless job every damn day, without even a shred of relationship to look forward to, at least try something new for a change.”

That was a little more truth than what Crowley strictly needed to hear, but he decided that he’d let her get away with it. This time.

(Whom was he even trying to fool? He always let her get away with it.)

Crowley pushed himself up, crossing his long arms on his chest in a way he’d deny until the end of days to be dramatic in the slightest, and used the full head (and then some) he had on Anathema to look down on her in what he hoped was a fearsome looming. Anathema seemed inconveniently unimpressed with the display.

“Just because you and that boyfriend of yours are going through a honeymoon phase, it does not mean that a relationship would solve everyone’s problems.”

Anathema shrugged, taking another small sip of her coffee. It was probably getting cold, by now.

“Never said it does. It helps though, to have someone. Makes you feel a little less lonely, if anything.”

Not always, Crowley thought, but he didn’t have the heart to tell her that. Newt was her first proper boyfriend, and she deserved to inhabit her little bubble of happiness as long as life would let her. And it wasn’t like he had any personal experience to draw up from, after all. He was specialised in the kind that didn’t last and didn’t stay. He could write entire dissertations about those.

“Still. Not everyone’s style.”

“Never said that either.” Anathema eyed him for a long, silent moment. “But I think it’d be good for you.”

All right, that was enough. Crowley was only thirty-eight, for Christ’s sake, intelligent enough and not completely repellent. He was not beyond hope for a relationship, thank you very much, and he didn’t need to be pitied by a nineteen-year-old.

“Not really _my_ style,” he replied, cocking up his hip and hoping that his smirk looked condescending and self-assured. And even if he missed the mark, he could console himself with the knowledge that his black skinny jeans underlined his jutting hipbones to perfection when he slouched that way.

Anathema arched a brow, and if there was a new softness to her brown eyes Crowley most assuredly didn’t see it.

“Keep telling yourself that,” she mumbled into her coffee, but low enough that Crowley could pretend he hadn’t heard her. He decided that it was high time to change the subject.

“Anyway,” he said, trying his best for playful and careless, and hoping he wasn’t falling short. “I thought you weren’t trying to set me up.”

“I’m not,” Anathema answered in what could or could not be calculated disinterest, sipping at her coffee. “Aziraphale needs someone to shove down his family’s throat, and you need a distraction. It seemed like a good match.”

“I’m flattered that you’d consider me a relative’s worst nightmare,” Crowley grumbled, but he couldn’t hide the grin. He couldn’t really blame her. Aside from his own personal predispositions, or at least those he would allow himself to have, he was as far away from boyfriend material as he’d ever seen. He was too brash, too crude and too flashy to be easily accepted as anyone’s partner, however tolerant the family was, and his job as a tabloid journalist didn’t exactly help the matter along. But he’d be damned before he invented some kind of benign lie. He was what he was, and if someone didn’t like it, they could go to hell.

Anathema cocked her head, gaze unwavering.

“I think you’re quite the catch, actually, but most people can’t see past their nose. From what I’ve heard, Aziraphale’s family is particularly backwards in that regard, so yes, I think you might be a little too much for them.” She emptied her cup with a little shrug. Crowley did his best to ignore the warm feeling her words had sparked into his chest. He was not that pathetic, not yet. “I might or might not hope that a few of them will go into shock and drop dead, but that’s something it’d be best not to share with Aziraphale. He seems to love his family. No idea why.”

Crowley frowned.

“What’s so terrible about them? The average homophobic arseholes?”

“Oh, no, not at all. The wedding in question is between Aziraphale’s sister and her girlfriend. Well, fiancé. Of the female kind. And everyone seems perfectly cool about that.” Anathema sighed, stepping to the sink to rinse her empty mug. “It’s Aziraphale. They’re just horrible to him. Aziraphale doesn’t really go into details, but I got the impression that his family finds his job kind of demeaning, and they won’t let him forget that.”

“Demeaning? Working as a _librarian_?”

“They all seem pretty snobbish, from what I hear. The kind of people who have big jobs and are very polite to the help because they have manners, but wouldn’t sit on a bus if the road was on fire and the last car had been blasted to kingdom come.”

“The _help_? Who’s getting married here exactly, the entire cast of _Downton Abbey_?”

Anathema put her mug in the dishwasher with a very unladylike snort.

“Maybe. Aziraphale is pretty cagey about his family, and gets very defensive very quickly whenever his siblings are criticised. He’s very protective of them.”

“And showing up with _me_ will help your friend in what way, exactly?”

Anathema shrugged again.

“I don’t know. But it will be good for them. Stirring the pot a little. You never know.”

“This could end very, very badly.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. And you like a challenge.” Anathema smiled at him, wide and impish and bright. She looked out of place in that dingy kitchenette, in that crowded, dank crawl space they called the main office, and he hoped -he _knew_\- that she’d leave them soon for something better. It wasn’t too late for her. Two more years and then she would graduate and get the fuck out of that basement, and Crowley would miss her fiercely, but she didn’t deserve to be stuck there for the rest of her life. “Aren’t you curious to see what could happen?”

“Worst case scenario, they let the dogs loose and shoot me on sight,” Crowley grumbled, but she did have a point. He _was_ curious. He wouldn’t have become a journalist if he hadn’t been, as poor an excuse for one as he was.

“If that makes you feel any better, I think your head would look lovely mounted over an eighteenth-century fireplace,” Anathema all but _giggled_, though she would deny to the moon and back that she would ever do such a thing.

Crowley scoffed. His hands were still a little sticky, but he decided to ignore it and went for a cup of coffee instead. Anathema had brewed a new pot for herself, and it’d have been a pity to let what was left go stale. It was only his third coffee, after all, and it was already ten in the morning. Barely the time to squeeze another three or four cups before the end of the day.

“My head would look lovely everywhere, thank you very much, but I like it best attached to the rest of me,” Crowley grumbled, nursing his piping-hot cup and blowing gently over the rim. “But yeah, alright. I might be persuaded to meet the guy. Though I’m not making any promises about anything else.”

Anathema clapped her hands, all but yapping at him like an overexcited puppy.

“Really? That’s great, I’ll set up a date for next week. Any day in particular?”

Crowley thought it over, sipping his coffee. It was wonderfully bitter. Bless Anathema and her flawless taste.

“Wednesday might be best,” he mused. “Nothing going on on Wednesdays.” Nothing had been actually going on since that last fateful one-night stand more than two months before, aside from _Golden Girls_ reruns and reality shows, but he wasn’t about to tell Anathema that, of late, the highlight of his weekends had been Gordon Ramsey hurling abuses at his assistants. He had an image to uphold. “After work, maybe? I could spare an hour for a coffee. If you pay.”

“Yeah, of course. My treat.”

They both knew that the coffee would end up being on him, since Crowley wasn’t going to let an unpaid student waste whatever little money she had on his own damn coffee, but that was beyond the point.

“I could be a Shakespearean fake boyfriend,” Crowley chuckled, heading for the door, hands clasped tightly around his mug. “Never done that before.”

“Never too old for a first,” Anathema quipped from behind him, and they bickered all the way back to his desk.

* * *

For someone whom Crowley hadn’t even known existed until a week before, that Aziraphale ended up taking a lot of space in his mind, during the following days. Crowley wasn’t completely sure how he felt about it. He should’ve probably been annoyed at Anathema for dragging him into yet another unnecessary mess (or at his own self for not being able to say no to a pushy nineteen-year-old, though that was utterly beside the mark), but he couldn’t really find it in himself to be all that bothered. It wasn’t like he had much to _do_ anyway, and anything was better than watching the days slither by.

The truth was, Crowley had never been good at leaving a situation well and thoroughly alone. Once curiosity had sunk its talons into his skin, it nagged and prodded at him until it was satisfied, one way or the other, and Crowley had never been particularly successful at fighting it. He was weak. And he was _bored_, as Anathema had so unhelpfully pointed out.

Whatever was left of Friday rolled by without so much as a how do you do, and the weekend wasn’t too bad either, what with his telly doing what it was supposed to do and turning his mind off with rubbish on end. He cleaned his sparsely-furnished flat until it shone (he was _not_ a neat freak, for the record, he just liked to inhabit places that didn’t give him rabies), treated his potted plants with liquid fertilizer and barked threats, and enjoyed the polite cattiness of the participants of _The Great British Bake Off_ until a couple of noisy action movies lulled him straight to sleep.

Come Monday, however, with nothing to think about more challenging than royal gossips and starlets sightings in this or that exclusive resort on the Cayman Islands, his mind was left to wander, worrying at the same bone like a stubborn dog. Anathema had jumped him unaware that same morning to inform him that their Wednesday coffee was very much on, if he hadn’t already decided to chicken out at the last moment, which Crowley had emphatically denied. He did _not_ chicken out of things, especially of a stupid coffee in a bloody shop around the corner. The obvious result was that he was now roped into the damn thing twice as tight, and there was no avoiding it anymore.

The worst of it was that Crowley wasn’t really sure he _wanted_ to. Anathema’s mystery man was pretty much the most interesting thing that had happened to him in the last month (and how pathetic was that, really?), and speculating on a random stranger was much easier than changing the status quo, especially if he could keep the entire train of thought to himself.

As a result, come mid-morning, Crowley had found himself lolling idly in the decrepit death trap that his boss liked to call a swivel chair, twirling a pen in his hand and staring blindly at the wall, while his mind turned Anathema’s words over and over. He didn’t have much to go on. The man was apparently a librarian at Anathema’s university, had a shite family and was Very, Really Nice. That was about it. Crowley wondered lazily how he looked, what he liked. How old he was. Old enough that Crowley wouldn’t look like a cradle-robber, he assumed, but not so old that Crowley would look like his in-home nurse. He could’ve asked Anathema, of course, but that would’ve meant showing an interest, and Anthony J. Crowley might have been too spineless to hold his own against a girl barely out of high school, but he’d be damned if he ever admitted that she’d been right. Crowley hated it, when Anathema was right. Unfortunately for him, she was right most of the time.

After much wondering and speculating, Crowley had reached the conclusion that a man finding himself in need of a fake boyfriend for a family wedding was either a) a guy so ugly he couldn’t get a date the usual way, or b) a perfectly average bloke coming out of a bad breakup who wasn’t ready to put himself out there just yet. There were other possibilities, of course, but Crowley felt that they were merely ramifications of those two basic facts of life. He had briefly considered the hypothesis that this Aziraphale could be uninterested in sex or romance as a whole, but since Anathema had hinted at partners and dating, Crowley had almost immediately discharged it. Another alternative was that Aziraphale actually _was_ seeing someone, but since he apparently had the world’s worst arsehole family, he’d sagely decided to keep them as far away from his partner as possible. In that case, however, Crowley doubted that Anathema would’ve brought up the idea of Crowley pretending to snog the man on the low, when she could’ve berated the poor man’s unsuspecting partner for being a shameless coward completely unworthy of her friend’s time.

No, Crowley was quite sure he was on the money about the guy. And however little he might like the sheer amount of time he was wasting pondering about a man he’d never met, he was infinitely relieved that his inability to grow a spine hadn’t cost him more than a few hours. He didn’t really fancy the idea of being stuck for a whole weekend with an eldritch horror, though the alternative didn’t sound much better–and it had nothing to do, he emphatically told himself, with the fact that he’d had his heart well and thoroughly shattered by a guy still hung up on his ex a few years before.

(Crowley’s annoying tendencies towards optimism had bit him in the arse more than once in the past, but he could learn, and like a dog that had been kicked once too often, he stuck to what he’d learnt.)

A couple of hours in a coffee shop, however, he could do. It would be quick, and safe, and it would bring a welcome distraction to his dreary routine. He could find out more about this mystery man, if anything, and answer his own idle questions.

Crowley was bored, and he was indeed curious as the proverbial cat. One day, he would probably end up exactly the same way.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so, _so_ much, I’ve been overwhelmed by the love received by the first chapter. I’m not particularly good with deadlines, but I’ll do my outmost to update this story regularly every other Friday. Stay tuned for more! <3

After much speculation, Wednesday evening came almost too quietly for Crowley’s liking. He hadn’t exactly expected to be escorted through the city by the New Year’s Day parade, with men in tights banging on those drums and blowing those trumpets (though it was a lovely picture to bring to mind, in every possible meaning of the words), but still. The coffee shop Anathema had chosen for the occasion was literally around the corner, so they barely had the time to breathe some crispy October air before being engulfed into yet another basement.

“It’s past six in the evening,” Anathema pointed out, as they climbed down a narrow staircase to land in what looked like somebody’s backyard, instead of the entrance to a coffee shop. “It’s dark. It’s been dark for the past hour and a half.”

“So?” Crowley muttered, knowing already where this was going.

“Lose the glasses, will you?” Anathema complained. “You look like one of the Blue Brothers. It’s embarrassing.”

Crowley grinned at her, wide and wicked. He would do no such thing, and Anathema knew it. She just liked to grumble. Crowley believed that no one in their right mind could find dark glasses anything but the epitome of cool.

“Your pop references are even more dated than mine.”

There was a thick door of coloured glass at the bottom of the stairs. If it hadn’t been for the lights and noise filtering through, Crowley would’ve thought the place abandoned.

“Please,” Anathema shot back, pushing at the door. “Can’t outdate a classic.”

Crowley was taken aback by the almost solid wave of heat and noise that engulfed him, as he stepped into the shop. Anathema, much quicker to react, was already taking off her thick scarf and scanning the room for her friend. She grabbed Crowley’s arm and shouted in his ear: “Over there,” and Crowley barely had the wherewithal to follow her lead as she unbuttoned her black coat and picked her way through the chattering crowd.

Like the office, or their own personal hell as they called it, this place was full to the brim with people, sticky tables and faint lights, but unlike the office, the lights had actually a warm hue to them, and the people seemed reasonably happy to be there. It was also stifling hot, which the newsroom had never been in the entire time Crowley had been (more or less willingly) imprisoned there. As he walked past full tables and puttering waitresses, only distinguishable from their customers by that very specific harried look waitresses all over the world rather unenthusiastically shared, he realised a little belatedly that very few patrons were older than twenty-five, and that he’d been dragged into a very obvious student waterhole. Taller than almost anyone else, with fashionable black clothes and sunglasses, he stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb.

Crowley was still trying to decide whether the best approach for the situation would be too cool for school or shrinking into inconspicuousness at the best of his abilities, when Anathema suddenly stopped. The halt had been so abrupt that Crowley almost bumped into her, but he managed to reel back just in time, only stumbling a little (and he would’ve denied later that any stumble had actually occurred even if they’d summoned the Spanish Inquisition, and not the funny Monty Python’s kind). Dim lights and dark glasses made for very lousy bedfellows, he begrudgingly admitted, but if the price for keeping them was to shatter his shins on a deluge of crooked tables and cheap wooden chairs, he would pay it gladly on any given day.

Crowley squinted, peering over Anathema’s shoulder at the tiny corner table right in front of them. It was a cosy little place, equipped with a padded bench and two rickety chairs. There was a man sitting on the bench, with his head stuck so far into a book that Crowley could barely make out the soft curly halo of his impossibly light hair.

“Hello, Aziraphale,” Anathema said, in such a sweet voice that Crowley did a double take. She never used that voice with him, he groused a little in his mind. Crowley was man enough to admit that he was more than a little possessive of the very few people he actually liked, but he was too cool to let it show, and he was in no way staring at the man down his nose. He stuck his hands into the pockets of his black coat and buried his face into his burgundy scarf in a way that he hoped made him seem supercilious, instead of simply huffy, or downright ridiculous in the stifling heat of the shop.

The man, Aziraphale, uttered a startled “Oh!” at Anathema’s voice, lifting his head from the book and then promptly bouncing up on his feet, revealing outdated suit trousers and an old-fashioned waistcoat that had seen better days hugging his thick frame. An equally worn-out beige coat was neatly folded on the bench next to him.

The straw that broke the back of Crowley’s already strained fashion sense, however, was the thin golden chain that hung forlornly from the threadbare pocket of the man’s waistcoat. It looped around a button and held up a thick, tacky medallion that Crowley would’ve bet his Bentley served as a counterweight to an honest-to-God stopwatch, because, really, why not. That librarian was practically a caricature of himself. He had small round glasses perched on the tip of his nose, for Christ’s sake, and a tartan bowtie fastened around the neck of his pressed white shirt.

“I’m so sorry, Anathema. I was a little lost in my book, I’m afraid,” the man said, in a slightly fussy, prim voice. His smile was bright, though, and Crowley was reluctantly charmed. “Hello, it’s so very lovely to see you again.”

The man’s eyes then wandered to Crowley, who stood behind Anathema like a looming beanpole. He frowned a little, as he took Crowley in.

“And... your friend?”

Crowley frowned back in momentary confusion, then the realisation hit him like a freight train. The poor bastard didn’t have the slightest idea of what was going on. Anathema, sly witch that she was, hadn’t told him a thing.

Crowley leant forward, aiming his best lifted eyebrow at her, but Anathema kept looking straight ahead and bestowed her most charming smile upon the very confused librarian who was blinking a little owlishly at the two of them.

“This is Crowley. He works with me,” Anathema smoothly introduced him. She briefly turned to Crowley, seemingly without noticing his lifted eyebrow in the slightest as she carried on: “Crowley, this is my friend, Aziraphale.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed, blinking up at him. Crowley couldn’t quite make out the colour of his eyes, but it seemed a pale hue, probably blue or grey. “It’s very nice to meet you. Anathema talks often about you.”

“All bad things, I hope” Crowley grinned, reverting to his bad boy routine to cover how at a loss he actually was. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but surely not to be thrown upon some poor unsuspecting man who’d seemed perfectly content not one minute before to read his book and drink his... whatever that was, cocoa maybe? Difficult to tell, the mug was almost empty.

“Not at all. You seem like a very kind man, from what she tells me,” Aziraphale eagerly corrected him.

Crowley couldn’t believe that his trite quip had been taken seriously. He looked at the other man for a long moment.

“Yeah. So. Sit down, I’ll get us something to drink. I hope they can make at least a halfway decent coffee in this place.”

Crowley didn’t know what to do or say. He hated that. Being scathing helped a little to cover it up.

“They make an excellent coffee here, if you must know,” Anathema sniffed at him, but she was folding her puffy coat on the back of a chair and sitting down, so she mustn’t have been too put out by his pettiness. “Usual for me, please. And a hot chocolate for Aziraphale.” She grinned at her friend. “With marshmallows on top.”

“Oh, no, I’m fine, really. I wouldn’t want to impose... I still have some cocoa left...”

Aziraphale was floundering, clearly as uncomfortable about the entire thing as Crowley was. That made Crowley warm up a bit to him.

“Not a problem,” Crowley said with his most charming smile, not really sure why he was even bothering. “I’ll go place the order.”

He turned on his heels before Aziraphale could protest any further, and heard him fuss about the bench and the chairs as he made his way towards the counter.

“Sit down, Aziraphale. Relax. The chair is fine, we’ve seen much worse,” he heard Anathema reply, before their voices got swallowed by the din. And wasn’t she right, Crowley thought, mind lingering on what passed for a padded chair at the office.

The girl at the till seemed pretty much as excited about taking his order as he’d have been about getting an impromptu tracheotomy with the sandwich knife covered in crusted cheese laying behind the counter, but the perky barista who prepared his drinks made up for his colleague’s lack of enthusiasm in spades.

“Are you a friend of Anathema’s?” he asked, almost bouncing on his feet.

Crowley mumbled something noncommittal that could’ve meant yes, no, or the end is nigh, and took out his phone to check the latest news. He had a profile on all those ridiculous social websites and lots of contacts with whom he fashionably never spoke, but he rarely posted anything about himself. He liked to think that he was being mysterious. What he actually was, was a bored busybody that tended to look at other people as a source of distraction when his own life became unbearable. But other people’s lives seemed to be just as lacklustre as his own of late, and Crowley pocketed his phone with a sigh. He resigned himself to watching listlessly the barista making their drinks, pretending to listen to his chattering. He was sweating in his coat, and eyed a little longingly the table at which Anathema and Aziraphale were currently deep into a conversation. He should’ve got rid of his scarf and coat before fleeing to the counter, but he was a coward not particularly good at facing the unexpected, so taking off with an excuse had seemed the best option at the time.

As he balanced the three steaming mugs in his hands and made his way back to the table, he thought a little grimly that the trip to the counter had proved to be disappointingly uninspiring in that regard. He still had no idea about what he was supposed to do. His standard wanker self seemed to be the best bet. He rarely let him down, or even worse–left him exposed.

Crowley placed the mugs on the table a little roughly, and then proceeded to take off his coat. Anathema quirked a brow at him, as her conversation with Aziraphale tapered off, but Crowley felt Aziraphale’s eyes linger a little as his thin frame was exposed. He was back to a more familiar ground, and smirked at them both as he draped his coat and scarf on the back of his chair and then promptly sprawled his loose limbs all over it. His knee knocked against Aziraphale’s, and Crowley took some dark glee in seeing him jump and shrink away.

“So,” Crowley drawled, hooking an elbow over the back of the chair, “what did I miss?”

His grin widened at Anathema’s disapproving pout.

“Ah, nothing, really, we were just catching up,” Aziraphale replied, a little fretfully. He seemed to find Crowley’s presence vaguely alarming. “Anathema ordered a pretty rare book last week, and I was telling her that it came in today. Something about the social perspective of female labour in the development of the British industry in the eighteenth century, I believe...”

Crowley didn’t answer, merely tilting his head at him. He knew he was being unnerving, and Aziraphale’s nervous fidgeting was getting worse by the minute. Anathema threw him a glare that could’ve melted concrete.

“Thank you for the coffee, Crowley,” she said, a little icily, making no move to reach for her still steaming mug. That seemed to spur Aziraphale on. Crowley watched him flail a little, instinctively reaching for his mug and then thinking better of it, as he stammered:

“Oh, yes, Mr. Crowley. Thank you very much, though I must insist, I should like to pay my own...”

“Nonsense,” Crowley said, low and languid, almost like a purr. “My pleasure.”

Crowley was having fun, in a way. He always liked it best when he could work his own awkwardness in a way that made someone else feel uncomfortable. It was like some strange kind of victory, though Crowley wasn’t sure against whom. Certainly not against that poor sod, who seemed to have his own problems to deal with already. Perhaps against his own ridiculous self.

Anathema gifted him with yet another withering glare, to which Crowley answered with his customary grin, before shifting her attention back to Aziraphale. She chattered on a little about her day at the office, making a few attempts at involving Crowley in the conversation, but eventually giving up when he replied to every overture with a noncommittal mumble. Crowley didn’t really want to talk about the office, but he found himself pretty satisfied to be there, after all. It certainly beat watching another rerun of that terrible reality with spoiled teenage girls who bullied their parents, whatever that show was called. There was precious little else on the telly on a Wednesday evening, and here at least he could get some decent coffee.

(Crowley had no money to waste on a coffee machine. Since very few people actually got to see his flat, he considered his clothes and his Bentley much more profitable forms of investment.)

The rich smell of coffee filled his nostril, as he brought the steaming mug to his lips. The coffee was hot enough to burn his tongue, but Crowley relished the feeling, and most of all, relished the taste. Anathema and Aziraphale were still chattering away, seemingly no longer aware of his presence, and Crowley took his chance to study Aziraphale at leisure, knowing that with his sunglasses on he could easily get away with it.

(It was one of the main reasons he loved them so much. He’d have kept them in the office, too, if Beelzebub hadn’t been such a stuck-up tosser with an unhealthy attachment to rules and regulations.)

If there was one single thing absolutely crystal clear to Crowley, was that Aziraphale had been born to be either a librarian or a stereotypical history teacher in an exclusive public school, from the hem of his soft-looking beige trousers to the tip of his pale hair. He had symmetrical features and a slightly pointed nose, with the kind of round face that made it close to impossible to divine how old its owner was with any certainty. Crowley’s best guest was something around his own age, though Aziraphale dressed like a grandpa and had the energy of a twenty-something. He and Anathema were currently chatting about someone (a professor of hers, perhaps?) and Aziraphale was in the process of utterly demolishing the man’s clearly faulty syllabus. He was gesticulating wildly, his initial awkwardness completely melted away now that Crowley was not in the picture anymore.

Crowley took another sip of his coffee, quickly recalibrating his expectations. Aziraphale was a little chubby, and perhaps not exactly the flashy sort of handsome that would whip heads around, but he was attractive enough. No eldritch horror. Nothing out of the ordinary. On the contrary–he was refined, delicate in his manners in a way that suggested upper-class upbringing, even if his clothes were a bit worn. He put care in the way he dressed, as out of fashion as it was, and his hands were soft-looking and perfectly manicured. He seemed friendly, and now that Crowley was not actively trying to unsettle him, perfectly at ease amongst the sea of people. He was _definitely_ interested in men, if the look Crowley got for his trouble was any indication. Which meant that Aziraphale was very likely option two–the bitten one, avoiding the dating scene because burnt by a bad relationship.

Just his luck. Not that Crowley was actually considering anything like tapping _that_, but still.

Time ticked by, as Crowley sipped at his coffee and watched Aziraphale daintily scoop up his marshmallows and bring them to his lips. Anathema let go of her half-empty mug, which she was holding for dear life, only long enough to flip back a stray dark lock. Aziraphale’s pale hair seemed almost golden in the soft lights. Crowley realised that he was tapping his foot on the floor, and that he’d been squirming in that bloody chair for the last half hour in an attempt to find a comfortable position for his bony arse on the hard wood. The glow of novelty had been steadily fading away, and Crowley was getting bored.

He took a peek around, but there was nothing going on, interesting or otherwise. Everyone looked so distressingly young in there, and it was ridiculous how well Aziraphale seemed to merge in a crowd on which he had at least a couple of decades, while Crowley felt so unnervingly out of place.

He squirmed some more, before finally having enough.

Crowley knocked back whatever was left of his coffee and settled the mug on the table, perhaps a little too forcefully, if Anathema’s light frown and Aziraphale’s startled blink were any indication.

“Something the matter, Crowley?” Anathema asked, suggesting him with a very blatant warning look to choose his next words carefully. She was clearly building up the momentum to drop the bomb on her unaware friend, but they’d been there for more than one hour and Crowley’s patience was already halfway back to his apartment.

“Yes. Are you going to get on with it or what?” he drawled, answering to her thunderous frown with a face-splitting grin.

Aziraphale’s confused gaze shifted between the two of them.

“Is everything all right?” he asked, hands clenching reflexively around his mug.

Crowley gestured in his direction while placidly regarding Anathema, whose eyes were now positively blazing.

“Are you going to tell him, or should I?”

“Crowley, I swear...” she grumbled, before giving up with a sigh. Her eyes gentled somewhat, as she turned to Aziraphale. “I told Crowley about your... problem.”

She even managed to sound a little guilty as she said it. Crowley wasn’t sure if that was a performance, but if it was, he was impressed.

Aziraphale went very still at that. He was clutching his mug so tightly that Crowley wondered hazily whether he would break it before the end of the evening.

“What... what problem?” Aziraphale asked, in a small, guarded voice. He knew what problem Anathema was talking about, it was pretty self-evident, but he was hoping for a different answer. Crowley almost felt bad for him, because he really wasn’t going to get it.

Anathema had to see it as well, clear as it was, but she soldiered on anyway.

“The wedding. You told me that you needed a plus one, so I thought that you could take Crowley. He’s free, he’d be happy to come.”

Crowley started, throwing an outraged frown at Anathema. He’d _never_ said that. He’d said he’d consider it, and even that, only because she’d insisted. He’d never offered to go. And he surely hadn’t told her that he was free! He had a life, he had _things_! Of some sort! He could surely find something to do, he wasn’t such a pathetic loser that he was free for weekends on end with only time on his hands and available for every random stranger to drag him along like a lost puppy...

He was barely starting to straighten up and open his mouth to give Anathema a piece of his mind, when Aziraphale’s incredulous protest stopped him dead in his tracks.

“You thought _what_?!” Aziraphale cried, almost choking on his words. He was staring at Anathema with wide eyes, hands gripping the edge of the table and back bowed a little backwards, as though he was instinctively recoiling from them. His skin had gone sickly pale, but there was an interesting flush creeping up his neck.

“Why not?” Anathema asked with a little shrug. “Are you planning on taking someone else?”

“That’s not...” Aziraphale spluttered, looking mildly panicked and a whole lot affronted. There was a tight grimace on his face. “That’s not the point! It’s my sister’s wedding, I can’t just show up with a complete stranger! They’ll be expecting me to bring...”

“A significant other?” Anathema slyly prompted.

“Well, yes! And you know I’m not... I’m not...”

Whatever Aziraphale wasn’t, Crowley would never know, since Anathema smoothly (and quickly) took over before he could finish that pained sentence.

“You could just tell them that.”

“That what?”

“That the man you’re bringing with you _is_ your significant other,” Anathema all but purred, calmly setting her elbows on the table and keeping her mug lifted in front of her breast like a shield. “They don’t need to know the truth.”

Aziraphale sharply moved his hand in a gesture full of denial.

“Absolutely not. Out of the question. I could never lie to my family. Not about something like _that_.”

“Your family does not deserve the truth. Especially if they put you in the position of being forced to lie to them.”

Anathema’s voice brooked no argument. She seemed angry now, the righteous anger of a concerned friend. Crowley felt a little dumb staying there and saying nothing when they were discussing something that involved him directly, but he didn’t know what to say, and keeping his mouth shut seemed like the best course of action for now.

“That’s not... I just... I can’t. I can’t just bring _him_ along and... what? Tell them we are _involved_?!”

Aziraphale sounded about as flabbergasted as he looked, as though the idea of being involved with Crowley was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever contemplated in his entire life. He sounded almost _offended_. Even Anathema looked a little taken aback, and Crowley was bristling at the tone. So what, he was good enough for a little ogling on the side, but God forbid anyone might think he could be anything more than a casual shag? Fuck it. He’d been with enough closeted cases in his youth to know the feeling, and he’d be damned if he allowed anyone else to make him feel that way again.

“Crowley’s not that bad, deep down,” Anathema coaxed, a little uncertainly, and wasn’t that the fucking cherry on top of the fucking cake? He needed to be sold by a nineteen-year-old now, like a stale pie. That was enough.

“Well,” Crowley interjected, bringing everyone’s attention to himself. “I promised I’d come, and I came. He doesn’t seem interested. Might as well go home.”

“No, Crowley, wait,” Anathema begged, trying to take hold of his arm. Crowley gently disentangled himself and got to his feet. Aziraphale was looking at him with a wide-eyed, dazed look painted on his round face, like a deer caught in the headlights.

“I’ll see you tomorrow at the office, Anathema. Bye now. _Ciao_.”

Crowley heard Anathema’s voice, but he simply took his coat and scarf and slinked away, ignoring whatever was going on behind him. That had been a silly idea to begin with. He’d been going along with a plan designed by a teenager, for Christ’s sake. The least he deserved was to feel like a fool. And if he felt a little hurt, on top of that, well, that was his own fault. He’d set himself up for a rejection, after all. What else was he expecting to get?

Foolish, foolish Crowley.

Scar tissue was less sensible, they said. It made for thicker skin. Perhaps one day his skin would get thick enough to dull the sting.

* * *

Thursday morning rolled by like a derailed train. Crowley had used his age-old remedy for anything that went badly in his life, and the first thing he’d done after he got back to his flat had been to get utterly, mindlessly plastered. As a result, he was staring at the walls and nursing a hangover, when Anathema stopped by his desk.

“Hello, Crowley,” she said, in a mercifully soft voice.

Crowley grunted in reply. His head was pounding and he was still upset. He didn’t know exactly _why_ he was so upset, but he was. Not knowing why made him twice angrier about it. It was his brain, his upset. If he got hurt, he ought to know what for. Then again, he wasn’t all that eager to investigate. The fact that he could still see in his mind Aziraphale’s face as he recoiled from him was more than enough. Any further soul searching without the aid of a bottle of scotch was simply idiotic.

“Look, Crowley,” Anathema went on, when it became clear that Crowley wasn’t going to join the conversation in a constructive manner any time soon. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think it through.”

Knock me down with a feather, Crowley thought. But Anathema looked almost as upset as he felt. Her big brown eyes were downcast, and her thick brows were drawn together on her smooth forehead. She looked too unhappy to drive his point home. And what _had_ happened, really? It’d been more awkward than anything else. No one’s fault that he got emotional over nothing. He was supposed to be an adult, after all.

Crowley pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. They felt sore and puffy, and his head wouldn’t stop pounding, despite the painkillers he’d taken on his way to work. There was a foul taste into his mouth, as though something had died in it and stayed for the funeral.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” he grumbled, slightly horrified by his scratchy voice. “Nothing happened. ‘m sorry for your friend. Didn’t work out, after all.”

Why was he even saying that? Her friend was an arsehole and a twit. He deserved to be treated like shite by his family. But then again, Crowley knew firsthand what was like to be treated like shite by family, and he wasn’t sure that him being a sensitive little girl warranted for someone else to get that kind of punishment.

He almost groaned out loud. Since when was he all that bothered about being _fair_?

“Yeah. I didn’t think...” Anathema paused for a long, long moment. Crowley was about to uncover his eyes to check whether she’d gone away, when she went on: “He didn’t mean it that way, you know.”

Crowley did groan out loud, this time. He’d barely managed to roll out of bed and put on some reasonably clean clothes that morning. He was way too hungover for that conversation.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he croaked. The hands he was keeping plastered on his face were working pretty well, but Crowley suddenly was missing his glasses. He felt naked in a way that he thoroughly disliked.

“Of course you do. Even Aziraphale realised he’d upset you.”

And wasn’t that just the loveliest thing he’d heard so far? It wasn’t enough being pitied by a nineteen-year-old, oh, no. Her librarian also had to join the club.

Crowley tried to say something, _anything_, but all that came out from his mouth was a string of consonants.

“’m not upset,” he eventually managed to cobble up. “’m hungover.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Anathema shot back, and even with his eyes closed Crowley could see the critical look she was undoubtedly throwing his way. “Well, since you’re not upset, you won’t mind if Aziraphale has reconsidered?”

That did the trick. Crowley dropped his hands and tried to drag himself to some sort of awareness, blinking owlishly when the bright lights of the office hit his sore eyes.

(Well, relatively bright. There seemed to be no one around charged with the simple task of changing the bulbs, and once the ones that had probably been there since the seventies went out, they stayed out. The result was that the lights coming from the computer screens were brighter than the ambience light, and Crowley would’ve gone blind ages before if he hadn’t personally taken care of his own desk lamp. He was very grateful, however, that right then and there his lamp was off.)

“He did what?” Crowley eventually asked, as he tried and failed to sound reasonably intelligent, and not like his brain had just been swallowed by a giant bug and spat out after a thorough chewing.

All in all, his brilliant plan of getting wasted didn’t seem to be bringing about particularly good results.

Buggers. He was getting old.

Anathema had a very peculiar expression on her face. Crowley belatedly realised that she looked like that every time she thought she was being very, very clever.

“He was a little taken aback by the idea of lying to his family, you know, but he came around. He asked me for your number. Can I give it to him?”

That was spinning way, way too fast for Crowley to follow. It’d have been difficult even if he hadn’t been hungover. With a pounding headache and a roiling stomach, it was next to impossible.

“What?” he asked again, as clever as a deer rolled over by a tank.

“Your number, Crowley,” Anathema repeated, with a voice that clearly stated that her patience with his hungover state was running dangerously low. “Can I give Aziraphale your number?”

At least she was asking. Crowley could always tell her no. But then she would demand to know why, and he just wanted that conversation to end as soon as possible. He’d have said yes to an intricate plan to stop the Apocalypse, if that had meant for Anathema to go away swiftly and quietly. And Crowley _really_ wanted her to do just that.

“Yeah. Fine. Whatever,” he grumbled, before whining: “God, I need a coffee.”

His roiling stomach let him know that that was in _no way_ a good idea, but he was the one in charge. His stomach could just suck it up.

Anathema smiled sweetly at him. She looked horribly pleased, but Crowley was feeling too shitty at the moment to appreciate how dangerous that was.

“I’ll get you some. You stay here.” A beat, an assessing glance, and then: “You look like shit.”

“Thanks for noticing,” Crowley grumbled, but Anathema was already gone.

In the following, painful hours, spent mostly nursing his headache and swearing off scotch for the rest of his life, Crowley forgot everything about Anathema’s request. And when he got home, that evening, he thought nothing at finding a lost call from an unknown number on his phone. Salespeople called him all the time. He usually picked up, said hello very politely, and then left the phone on the counter and went about his business while they prattled on. It was really entertaining, especially after the third time he got called by the same person and very candidly told them that he got bored and left the phone on whatever surface was closer at hand, so yeah, they’d been droning on for ten minutes to thin air.

Crowley was just about to slouch in front of the telly with a pizza (which he didn’t like, but it was the best cure for roiling stomachs who lived through a hangover in his opinion), when the phone rang again. Unknown number. He picked it up on his way to the couch and all but threw himself over it, balancing the pizza on his lap as he accepted the call.

“Hullo. This is Anthony Crowley,” he intoned distractedly, busy as he was to keep the pizza box on his knees while lounging for the remote on the coffee table.

“Oh, hello, Mr. Crowley, good evening” came a fussy voice from the other end of the line, and Crowley’s eyes widened as he recognised its owner. “This is Aziraphale. Er, Anathema’s friend. I’m so sorry to bother you. Is this a good time? I could call you later...”

It was all Crowley could do not to drop everything on the floor.

_Fuck_.

He really, _really_ needed to find better coping mechanisms from now on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short note for my non-British readers: the term “public schools”, in England and Wales, refers to very prestigious, very exclusive, and very expensive fee-paying private schools. They have absolutely nothing to do with the American (or European) public schools, and the term public is taken from the legal act that granted these institutions independence from the government during the 19th century.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since tomorrow I'm not going to be around, you get the new chapter one day ahead of schedule. I really hope you'll like it! <3

Crowley had never been particularly good at handling surprises. In fact, he’d always been rubbish at it. Dealing with a hangover for most of the day, as it turned out, wasn’t helping the matter along.

“Ahm. Ngh. Yes. Ah... Aziraphale. Yes. ‘course,” he spluttered, flailing to no one in particular and barely managing to catch his pizza before it flew from his knees and crashed like a drunken duck onto the floor. “Yeah. Hello.”

There was a brief pause from the other side, probably due to Aziraphale trying to decide how to deal with the stuttering moron he’d just had the lousy idea of calling.

_Get a bloody grip, Crowley, you useless idiot._

“Hello, yes,” Aziraphale awkwardly repeated, and didn’t they just make the best picture together? Plonkers on the phone, oil on canvas. “Is this... is this a bad time?”

_Bad time for what, exactly, giving me a stroke?_, Crowley almost asked. He would’ve denied strenuously that his own voice had had some sort of hysterical ring into his own mind.

“Ah, no. It’s ok. ‘m not busy.” Crowley paused, cleared his throat (a little too loudly) and rushedly added: “That is, not yet. I have time. Some time. Right now.”

He pondered vaguely whether Aziraphale would hear him, if he started banging his head against the desk and tried to put himself out of his misery. Why was this so atrociously awkward? Crowley could do better than that, he knew he could, and he _had_, but his old smooth wanker self was somewhat out of reach right now. All that was left was a blundering, stammering fool, apparently incapable of talking his way out of a paper bag. Crowley decided to pin all responsibility for that particular disaster on his hangover, and once again swore off alcohol pretty fervently for the rest of his life.

“Ah, yes. Jolly good. I was hoping to talk to you,” Aziraphale replied. He seemed a little winded, and not a little perplexed by that conversation (if it could even be called as such). “I’m afraid I made a dreadful mess of things last night. I am truly sorry, Mr. Crowley. Are you free tomorrow evening? I’d be delighted to buy you dinner, if you’re amenable.”

“Dinner? Tomorrow night?” Crowley repeated, like a broken record. He looked at the dark screen of his telly, for lack of anything else to look at that would bestow some sense upon whatever was going on. His telly kindly gifted him with a distorted reflection of himself, with a cooling pizza on his lap and the most idiotic expression he’d ever seen on a living being plastered upon his skull. Crowley snapped his mouth shut and blinked the wide-eyed stare off his face.

“We could always reschedule, if you have other plans,” Aziraphale rushed to reassure him. “I’m perfectly aware that this invitation comes with very little warning, and I wouldn’t presume you’re free on a Friday night. It’s considered... an evening for social engagements of a sort, is it not? Or was that Saturday night? I could never keep them straight.”

Crowley was indeed free. He wasn’t sure he was happy about being free, though he wasn’t sure either he’d be happier being busy, what with how his life had been steadily rolling downhill of late, but he surely wasn’t going to do something as idiotic as telling the truth to a complete stranger. He also wasn’t sure he wanted to have dinner with said stranger on a Friday night, when he was supposed to be out partying. Possibly hooking up with an entirely different sort of stranger. Then again, he wasn’t sure he wanted that either.

“I’m free,” Crowley blurted out, since his brain tended to revert to the simplest way out (the truth) when left to its own devices. “That is, I was supposed to have something. Plans. But they got cancelled. Last minute. So, I’m free. You’re lucky.”

“Yes, indeed. Wonderful,” Aziraphale replied. “I know this little Japanese restaurant near Kings Cross, they make the best sushi in London. Do you like sushi, Mr. Crowley?”

Crowley wasn’t a great fan of barely-dead fish (he liked his food to be thoroughly gone the way of the dodo before he started to eat it), but he wasn’t too particular about what he put into his mouth. Pun intended.

“I could eat sushi,” he carefully replied. “What time?”

“I was thinking, seven o’clock? We could meet there. I’ll give you the address.”

Crowley almost blurted out that he could pick up Aziraphale in his Bentley, but he wasn’t about to invite himself to some random man’s house–not without a hand on his cock, at least. That was unknown territory for Crowley, and he didn’t particularly like it. Exploring new horizons had never been his thing. He wouldn’t have still been working for that rubbish tabloid, if it had.

“Yeah. Works for me,” Crowley replied, feeling like he was entering some sort of fugue state and deciding that going with the flow was the best course of action until his brain came back online.

“That’s settled, then.”

Aziraphale gave him the address, and Crowley found somehow the wherewithal to scramble on his feet with his pizza precariously balanced on his hip and wander for pen and paper to the small base cabinet with the ansaphone in the foyer. He was still holding onto the pizza for dear life as he stuck his phone between his ear and shoulder and jotted down the street.

He dutifully repeated the address, and Aziraphale sounded pleased as he confirmed that it was indeed the right one.

“Marvellous,” Aziraphale said, pushing that _a_ to an almost uncomfortable extent. Crowley couldn’t tell if he liked Aziraphale’s Oxbridge-educated accent or if he found it irksome to the extreme. “I’ll see you tomorrow. You have a wonderful evening now, Mr. Crowley.”

“Yeah. Sure. Bye.”

The line went dead, and Crowley was left to deal with a silent phone, a cold pizza, a residual hangover, and the feeling that something had just gone very, very badly, and very, very fast. He realised vaguely that he was standing in the foyer with a pizza carton clutched into one hand and his dead phone in the other, as he boggled at a harmless-looking piece of paper lying inconspicuously beside his ansaphone. He stared at the sprawling lines scribbled on it, while his mind struggled to wrap itself around whatever had just been going on without his explicit consent.

The realisation came down on him like a doped-up condor on a methamphetamine rush. What he _had_ been doing, moron that he was, was to agree to a dinner with Anathema’s librarian where he was supposed to ferret out the details of a bloody weekend in the country in which he was supposed to play the doting boyfriend to said librarian in front of his entire family (he guessed the doting part, because that was exactly the kind of sappy thing Anathema would want, romantic soul that she was, and Crowley doubted that a wanker boyfriend would help Aziraphale in any way in his quest to gain some respect from his shite family). He’d basically just agreed to the entire thing, from the escort-slash-fake-boyfriend routine to facing a bunch of elitist tossers in the middle of nowhere for an indefinite amount of time, and what if that wasn’t just a weekend? What if he’d be expected to stay there for a week, maybe, to _help_ or whatever the doting boyfriend was required to do in such a predicament?

Crowley could feel his headache coming back with the same gentle nudge of a juggernaut rolling down a hill. Oh, he was so fucked. So utterly, thoroughly fucked.

The best way to deal with it, of course, would be to call Aziraphale back and explain that Crowley was in no way amenable to get sucked into that kind of rubbish, but Crowley was a coward first and foremost, and a hungover one at that. His stomach was in no way pleased with the pounding headache that was once again snipping at his heels like a stubborn fifteen-stone puppy, and even less with the pizza that Crowley had utterly failed to deliver.

He would’ve shot himself in the foot and waded through the Thames hoping to catch the plague before facing anyone at all, right then and there, and Aziraphale came first on that list. The painful awkwardness of their exchanges so far was more than enough to make him balk at the mere suggestion, and he felt in no way ready to explain to Aziraphale that he’d changed his mind not five minutes after he’d agreed (perhaps not enthusiastically, but agreed nonetheless) to go through with Anathema’s plan. He’d sound like an idiot, and he simply couldn’t deal with that discussion (or Aziraphale’s very likely disappointment) at the moment.

(Crowley knew he had a complicated relationship with the whole disappointing people thing, but if he wasn’t ready at that point in time to deal with a simple phone call, he surely wasn’t in the best mood to root around his dormant childhood issues. If he was never actually in the mood to root about that specific field, which had been salted and burnt years before, that was no one’s business but his own.)

No, the best way to deal with the situation was to go back to his couch, eat his cold pizza, watch some rubbish television and think about nothing until a way out presented itself. It was his chosen solution for almost every problem, after all. And it never let him down.

* * *

Crowley was lying. While that _was_ his chosen solution for almost every quandary he was faced with in life, it was more likely to cause additional problems than solve whatever problem was already there, and he always, always ended up way more fucked than he’d begun with.

Crowley knew that, in a very deep, easily conceivable sort of way, but while he wasn’t particularly keen on lying as a principle, he’d always found that lying to himself made everything much easier to deal with.

So, he slouched on his couch, ate his cold pizza, watched some rubbish television, fell asleep, woke up at two in the morning, dragged himself to bed, fell asleep again, and started up to some sort of awareness barely in time to swallow some painkillers and crawl to work.

He was just starting to appreciate the fine job the painkillers had been doing at staving off his persistent headache, when his problems came back with a vengeance.

* * *

“Have you talked to Aziraphale?”

Crowley blinked, shifting his gaze from the faded poster that read ‘_PLEASE_ _Do not LICK the WALLS_’ to the girl standing beside his desk with a stack of papers clutched to her chest and a painfully eager expression painted all over her face.

(Crowley wasn’t sure who’d written that particular poster, or why anyone would want to lick the walls. He’d always chalked it down to people’s personal preferences and left it at that.)

“Er,” was Crowley’s very clever reply. He’d forcefully erased from his mind whatever had happened the night before, electing not to think about it in any form or fashion as a coping mechanism (which came right after astonishing amounts of alcohol, as far as coping mechanisms went), but he couldn’t switch Anathema off as easily as his own brain. More the pity.

“Well?” Anathema insisted, a slight frown starting to furrow her brow.

Crowley shrugged. Always a good idea, shrugging. Took importance away from whatever stupid answer was about to come out of his mouth. Crowley was very fond of shrugging.

“Yeah. I guess.”

“You guess? What do you mean, you _guess_?”

Crowley shrugged again. He’d stammered and stuttered in the vague direction of Aziraphale, yes, but he wasn’t sure that would classify as having actually talked to the man. Either way, stammering and stuttering lent clearly more than enough rope to hang oneself with it, if what he was allowing himself to remember was not a fevered dream bestowed upon him by a raging hangover.

“He called.”

“And?”

Crowley eyed his desk, looking for answers. He didn’t find any. What he did find was a pen, and since he wasn’t about to turn down anything being offered to him in that dramatic juncture, he picked it up.

“_And_, Crowley?” Anathema repeated, tapping her foot.

Crowley kept looking at his pen. Such a wonderful thing, a pen. He planted both elbows on his desk and started spinning the pen idly between his fingers, using his other hand to prop up his chin.

“Nothing, really,” he grumbled, so softly that Anathema had to bend down to hear him. “He wanted to talk. I said ok, let’s talk.”

“_And_?”

“We’re talking later tonight. That’s it.”

“Is he calling you back?”

If Crowley had to push it (_really_ push it), he could’ve said that Aziraphale would be calling _on_ him, in the old-fashioned meaning of the phrase, although he was well aware that what Aziraphale was after wasn’t exactly him, but a favour he wanted from him (and not that keenly, either). On top of that, being _called on_ made him feel like a Victorian maiden being courted by a suitor, and if there was something he hated more than feeling like a maiden being courted by a suitor, it was bloody Jane Austen.

(Crowley knew, of course, that Jane Austen didn’t sum up Victorian literature in any way, but after having suffered through _Pride and Prejudice_ in school, he’d burn anything with a bonnet in it before even thinking about questioning it.)

“We figured that talking face to face would be easier,” he said. He wasn’t lying, exactly. He doubted it’d be much easier, but it could hardly be any worse. That, at least, was what Crowley ardently hoped.

“Like, what, over _dinner_?” Anathema asked, looking suspiciously excited at the idea. Crowley finally looked away from his pen, so that he could frown properly at her.

“We’ll grab something to eat on the way, yes,” he answered, pretty despondently. “Don’t you have any work to do?”

Anathema ignored him.

“You decided to go along with my plan, then,” she beamed, brown eyes bright behind her horn-rimmed glasses. Crowley shrugged again.

“I’ve not said that. I’ve just agreed to meet him.”

“_Again_,” Anathema specified. It was Crowley’s turn to ignore her.

“You’re annoyingly enthusiastic for such an early time in the morning,” he complained, making a shooing gesture with his hand. “Go bother someone else. I have work to do, even if you don’t.”

Anathema rolled her eyes, but straightened up nonetheless.

“Right, _work_, such as staring at people in bathing suits while wrangling with that creepy photographer of yours about the price you’re willing to pay for a peek at some boob slipping out of some bikini cup. My bad.”

“I did write quite a soulful piece about making swimming trunks more revealing so that I could take a peek at some nice prick every now and then, but the market is not ready yet for that kind of breaking news,” Crowley shot back. Anathema laughed out loud at his quip, apparently appeased by some old equal-rights objectification, and took her flowing black dress and the stack of papers she was clutching over to the next desk. That left Crowley alone with his thoughts, which Crowley most emphatically did _not_ want at the moment.

He let his gaze wander, trying to force his mind into a state of blessed blankness. There was another motivational poster on the wall, right beside the one dealing with the wall-licking business. Crowley didn’t know who put that up either. Perhaps Beelzebub himself.

‘_For More Efficient Service just rip your OWN throat with a STAPLER._’

Crowley could get behind that, he supposed. All in a good day’s work.

* * *

Crowley was most definitely not fussing over his hair. He just liked to look his best at any given moment. And if he’d been fixing his hair for the past twenty minutes, as he hissed and barked and growled at the mirror (because if it was someone’s fault his hair wasn’t behaving as it ought to, it was most definitely not his), it was simply because he was a perfectionist.

Once sufficiently satisfied with the result, Crowley walked out of the bathroom and into his bedroom, using the long mirror nailed to the wall to give himself a critical once-over. He’d changed his outfit three times in the last hour, grumbling at Aziraphale and Anathema and the cumulative concepts of dinners, weddings, fake boyfriends, relatives and last but not least his own spineless self, but he was pretty satisfied with the final outcome. He didn’t want to look like he was trying too hard, but he didn’t want to look like a slob either, especially since he was planning to use the forced evening out to go to a club after what he imagined would be a painfully awkward dinner and pick someone up as a reward to himself.

(Crowley wasn’t sure what he intended to reward himself for, but he vaguely suspected that getting a blowjob after behaving like a sapless pushover would be the adult equivalent of handing a candy to a toddler who’d been bawling his way through an injection).

He looked good, Crowley decided. The black skinny jeans hugged his long legs and bony arse quite nicely, and the blood-red button-up shirt that went with them was tight enough to show off his trim waist without putting any unduly stress on his skinny chest. Crowley donned a black tie and tucked his shirt into his waistband with fashionable sloppiness, just enough to show off the snake-headed silver buckle of his snakeskin belt. A black formal jacket and snakeskin black boots completed the look. After some more fiddling with his short red hair, Crowley slipped in his black coat and pushed a pair of sunglasses onto his nose, before locking the door of his apartment behind and taking the lift to the basement.

Crowley lived in a huge apartment complex at the edge of the city, and while that meant that commuting was a form of torture on any given day, it also meant that with the money he’d got from selling his parents’ elegant house in Mayfair he’d managed to buy a decent-sized flat with a parking lot and save enough money to keep himself afloat all those years. All in all, if he was still angry and frustrated at times with his shite job, he was pretty satisfied with how his living situation had been coming along. His flat was not exactly the kind of fashion-designed, centrally-located luxury penthouse he’d dream of when he was feeling particularly maudlin and bored, but it was clean and comfortable and stylish enough for his standards. It was sparsely furnished, because it was trendy and it was cheap, but every piece had been selected with care and handled even more carefully. Very little in the flat was low-cost or run-down. The only concession he’d given to comfort was his couch, realising that white leather was really not a good companion to hangovers and pizza cartons. Soft black faux leather had been a much better choice.

The biggest chunk of the money he’d inherited, however, had gone to his one pride and joy–the 1926 Bentley he’d bought when he was nineteen and to which he had devoted huge amounts of time and cash throughout the years. He’d learnt to care for it personally, and he brought it to the shop only when it was something he couldn’t do himself. He couldn’t fix his shite life, he supposed, but he could fix his girl, and that was almost as good.

The lift pinged its door open on a dark underground basement, but the lights flickered back to life as soon as Crowley took his first step out. As usual, everything seemed to look just a little bit brighter, as he took in the sleek shape of his Bentley. He distractedly shook his keys until his fingers found the remote, and then Crowley was sliding into the black leather front seat, stroking the wheel as he went. It was almost sensuous, the pleasure he got from the expensive upholstery and the shiny metal. The Bentley was beautiful, and she was _his_. There was precious little else in his life that Crowley could name as such.

The engine roared to life as Crowley took the Bentley out. He’d looked into this sushi place Aziraphale had talked about and found a little underground parking lot not five minutes away. He typed the address into his phone, silenced the navigator and then turned on the radio, which had been holding captive his _Best of Queen_ album since he’d lost its plastic case. The tail end of _Don’t Stop me Know_ drummed into the small space, followed by the pure choir that kick-started _Bohemian Rhapsody_. A good choice, Crowley decided. Not that there could be a _bad_ choice of music in _his_ car, but still.

Freddy Mercury was belting out the best bit of _Another One Bites the Dust_ when Crowley pulled into the parking lot in Barnsbury. It was a little past seven, but he’d be damned if he was going to look eager to meet Aziraphale and tell him... what, exactly? Something along the lines of: ‘look, it was a misunderstanding, I don’t actually want to be dragged into the country to meet your wacky family. All the best and toodle-oo.”

It sounded so shitty, even in his own mind, that Crowley actually winced to himself while turning off the car. The sudden silence, as Freddy Mercury’s voice was brutally cut off, did nothing to improve it.

Well. It wasn’t like he had any other option left now, aside from fleeing like the coward he was. But he’d never do that. He’d been stood up on enough dates that he’d vowed to himself he would never, ever do that to another human being, no matter how shite the situation or the human being in question were. He’d kept his promise so far, and he wasn’t going to break it now, even if Anathema’s snotty friend deserved it a little. She could insist how much she wanted that Aziraphale hadn’t meant it that way and that he’d changed his mind since then–the rejection still stung, and Crowley wasn’t going to let it go so easily.

He groaned to himself, as he slipped his parking ticket into his wallet and climbed up the stairs. What was he even _doing_ there? Sure, he could poke some fun at that prissy librarian and get some satisfaction out of rejecting him in turn, but was that really worth it? Besides, being shite at saying no in the first place was the real reason that had landed him there, and there was only so much lying to himself that he could actually believe.

Crowley was ten minutes late, by the time he got to the place. Aziraphale was already there, looking both flustered and dejected, and Crowley felt the sting of guilt as he checked the time on his expensive watch. He felt even worse, when Aziraphale’s face lit up like a Christmas tree the moment he set eyes on him.

“Mr. Crowley!” Aziraphale greeted him, taking a small step in his direction with a huge smile on his face. “I was afraid something happened, or that you-you’d changed your mind.” Aziraphale frowned. “Not that I’m reproaching you. I mean, it’s all right if you’re late. I mean... this is coming out all wrong.”

There was something new about Aziraphale, Crowley thought. Aziraphale looked exactly like the fussy librarian he’d met with Anathema two days prior, clothes included, even if his current outfit seemed a little darker and a lot less worn-out than the previous one. Yet, there was something different, something that Crowley couldn’t quite put his finger on. Perhaps it was the glasses. Aziraphale had lost them for the evening, and he looked... he actually looked exactly as he did with his glasses on, which was damn odd.

Aziraphale was staring expectantly at him, and Crowley belatedly realised that the other man had extended his hand and was waiting for him to shake it. Reluctantly, Crowley slipped his hand out of his pocket and grasped it. Aziraphale’s palm was dry and warm, his grip surprisingly strong. Crowley frowned a little as he let him go.

“Hello,” he muttered. He was starting the night with a bang, nothing to say about that.

“I’m so glad you’re here. I felt horrible after the last time, and I thought, a dinner should do. Nothing better than dinner to say I’m sorry, am I right?” Aziraphale happily chattered on, leading Crowley inside.

The restaurant was small and softly lit, dipped in grey and black and red hues, but it was warm, and less crowded than Crowley had thought it would be. A waitress came to take their coats and greet Aziraphale with the friendly smile reserved to someone you’re at least familiar with, then Aziraphale was steering him to the rectangular counter at the centre of the floor that surrounded an open kitchen. There were three people fluttering like busy bees at the stoves and counters, and they all stopped whatever they were doing to flash welcoming smiles at them.

All that friendliness was making Crowley’s skin itch. He was used to the distracted _love_s and washed-out _dear_s he usually got at whatever till was about to cash his money, but those people seemed happy to see Aziraphale, even _genuinely_ pleased, God forbid, and it was setting his teeth on edge.

The unsettlingly smiling triangle broke when one of the men, probably the chef, ordered something to the others in a language that Crowley guessed was Japanese, setting them back to work in a flurry of activity like a flock of unruly ducklings. The chef then spoke to Aziraphale in that same language, and Aziraphale replied in kind.

Crowley stared at him with raised brows.

“You speak Japanese?” he asked, trying and failing to sound unimpressed.

Aziraphale straight up _giggled_ at that. Crowley was beginning to suspect that he got alcohol poisoning the night before and was actually lying unconscious in a hospital bed somewhere while going through a particularly disturbing delirious phase.

“Bits and pieces,” Aziraphale answered. “I like to think that speaking some of the language grants me the full experience.” The counter was surrounded by high-backed chairs, and Aziraphale, honest to God, actually pulled up one for him. “Please, Mr. Crowley, take a seat. I asked Hoga-_san_ to prepare my usual appetizers for us tonight, while we take a look at the menu.”

Crowley just boggled at Aziraphale. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had pulled up a chair for him. Maybe his mum, when he was five years old and couldn’t _reach_ the bloody chair.

Aziraphale’s smile dimmed a bit.

“Mr. Crowley? Is everything all right?”

His tentative tone reminded Crowley that normal people found uncomfortable being stared at in silence for long stretches of time. He cleared his throat and took his place, choosing to ignore the fact that Aziraphale had _pulled_ _up_ his _chair_ like a confederate gentleman in a period piece and was now helping him to sit down.

“Yeah, sure,” he muttered instead, planting his elbows squarely on the table.

“Wonderful,” Aziraphale said, taking the seat at his right side and beaming up at him. For a moment, Crowley felt the disconcerting compulsion to take off his glasses and look at Aziraphale in full light, to find out which colour his eyes were. “The appetizers will be oysters with ginger Japanese dressing. Do you like oysters, Mr. Crowley?”

Aziraphale’s smile took a slightly harried hue, and Crowley realised that Aziraphale was getting a bit worried at his own presumption. He couldn’t help but smirk lazily to himself. Aziraphale was being quite pushy for an acquaintance, and while that wasn’t something Crowley particularly objected to, he also liked seeing him a little flustered.

“Wouldn’t know. Never had them before.”

“Never?” Aziraphale repeated, blinking up at him. “How... That’s a shame, a real shame, that needs to be corrected presently.”

Crowley laughed at Aziraphale’s stern tone. Who _was_ this man? He looked like the prissy librarian Anathema had introduced him to, but he surely hadn’t spoken to Crowley that way in the coffee shop. Maybe because they’d barely spoken at all, before Crowley unceremoniously dropped the fake-boyfriend plot on him. Or maybe because Anathema wasn’t there now, and they weren’t in a university’s coffee shop, and Aziraphale had been expecting him, instead of having Crowley being shoved at him all trussed up like a Christmas turkey. Maybe because this time they were actually two adults socialising as such in an adult setting, and Crowley could glimpse splinters and fragments of the Aziraphale he’d seen with Anathema in this oddly self-assured and yet still fussy version of him, but shining brighter, as though Aziraphale had polished them for the night.

Aziraphale was smiling at him, when Crowley’s laughter tapered off.

“Have I said something funny?” Aziraphale asked, as though he was genuinely interested in the answer, instead of covering up his wounded pride with a pointed question. Crowley really couldn’t seem to pin this man down. He shook his head.

“Not at all. I’m not all that great with novelties, but I am a curious man. I’m always up for new experiences, provided they pay off.”

Aziraphale eyed him a little quizzically, and Crowley replied with a huge, lazy smirk. He knew what he was doing, of course, and if flirting was a monumentally dumb idea in the situation, at least it kept him into well-trod territory. He might not have a clue about what he was supposed to do or say during that evening, but at least he could stick to what he knew he did best. It felt like the reassuring beam of a lighthouse in foreign waters.

“Well, then,” Aziraphale replied, after a beat. “Can I make a suggestion for the main course? And we’ll need to choose the wine, of course.”

“I’m sure you have a suggestion for that, too,” Crowley drawled.

Aziraphale gave him a vaguely guilty smile.

“Actually, yes. I was thinking about a plate for two of mixed sushi, and of course we can’t choose a wine that would go with one type but not another.”

“Of course,” Crowley agreed, smirk widening. He’d thought that the evening would be atrociously awkward, and yet there he was–actually having _fun_. He still had to break the bad news to Aziraphale, at some point, but that was far in the future, when he would be hopefully drunk enough to make the moment less painful.

(He’d already forgotten the very serious vow he’d made to himself of never, ever drinking alcohol again until the end of his days on Earth. He always did.)

“What do you think of dry Champagne?” Aziraphale proposed. “It goes with almost anything, and I’m in the mood for some white tonight.”

“Dry Champagne it is.”

Aziraphale called the waitress to the table and ordered a bottle of Chardonnay. There were a lot of _please_ and _my dear_ and _that’s a love_ thrown in what was supposed to be a very short and reasonably simple exchange, but Crowley found it surprisingly charming. He could tell that Aziraphale actually meant it, and that lent a sweeter, old-fashioned undertone to what was usually considered socially-acceptable mannerism.

“So, what do you think about that plate, Mr. Crowley?” Aziraphale asked him, once the waitress was gone. There was an unmistakably hopeful note in his voice, and Crowley laughed again.

“I think it sounds good.”

“Wonderful,” Aziraphale almost purred, beaming at him. “I’ll make the order.”

Crowley propped his chin on his hand and listened, as Aziraphale chattered with the chef in Japanese. The chef was all warm smiles and eager nods, traded over the cutting counter where he was preparing what Crowley guessed were their appetizers. There were other patrons in the restaurant, but Crowley could spy oysters on the counter. The chef instructed his assistants in his musical language, and Aziraphale turned to Crowley just in time to spot the waitress coming up with their wine.

“Oh, lovely. That’s a dear. Thank you, I’ll take it from here,” Aziraphale cooed, as the waitress opened the bottle and left it on the counter to breathe. He poured wine for the both of them, while Crowley observed him with a raised brow over the rim of his glasses. The light was shining right into Aziraphale’s face, and Crowley saw that his eyes were some shade of grey-blue.

“It smells divine,” Aziraphale sighed, bringing his flute under his nose and gently sloshing the wine around. Crowley took his own glass and raised it expectantly.

“I guess a toast is customary,” he said, without really knowing why. He didn’t know that man. He had no idea what they could toast about. The world?

“Of course,” Aziraphale agreed. He took a moment to think it over, then smiled a disarming smile at him and said: “To the best sushi in London?”

Crowley laughed, the chef chuckled, and Aziraphale beamed.

“To the best sushi in London,” Crowley dutifully repeated, clinking their glasses. Crowley usually preferred red to white, heavy and thick and wondrously bitter, but the Chardonnay had a delicate taste and was pleasantly sparkled. It was much lighter than his favourite poisons, and that meant not getting sloppy drunk when he should only be just tipsy enough to deliver his speech and leave the premises with enough wherewithal left to drive his baby home without wrapping her around a lamppost.

They chattered a little about wine and sushi, after that. Aziraphale seemed to be able to talk about both subjects at length without losing even an ounce of his bubbling enthusiasm, apparently pleased by having someone there amenable to listen. Crowley realised slowly that he was shedding the tension he’d been carrying about for days a scale at a time, slouching on his chair with his elbow on the counter and his chin propped on one hand, as he sipped Chardonnay and picked at oysters with the other. Aziraphale had seemed most concerned about whether Crowley liked them or not, and Crowley found himself lying a little about that particular topic, because they were edible, he supposed, though a little washed-out for his taste, but that wasn’t something he could tell to an eager librarian staring at him with a hopeful smile on his face. He dutifully told Aziraphale that they were absolutely lovely, and Aziraphale smiled and fussed and Crowley realised with a start that he’d forgotten about Anathema and the wedding and what he was supposed to be doing there, and at some point he’d simply started to consider that a date, an honest-to-God date. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had one. Most of his interactions revolved around clubs and most shared meals he’d had had been morning-after breakfasts, when he was lucky and the guy was nice enough, usually followed by radio silence.

Crowley didn’t date. It wasn’t exactly his decision, but since he didn’t seem to be able to change it, he’d _made_ it his decision. It was less painful that way. And what they were doing there was not a date, anyway. It was dinner with a stranger in which he was supposed to tell him something he could’ve very easily told him over the phone, since they weren’t friends, they weren’t even acquaintances, and he owed the man exactly nothing. But there they were, sipping Champagne and slurping oysters. Aziraphale had even pulled up his chair for him. It was definitely the oddest not-date Crowley had ever had.

And there was something else, something much more insidious than that. There was Aziraphale. The awkwardness of their first meeting had been steadily melting away throughout the dinner, and at some point between entrees and main course, Crowley had realised that he was feeling relaxed with the man. Aziraphale was surprisingly easy to talk to. He was eager, and open, and honest, and prim and prissy and fussy and pretentious and pushy and utterly unapologetic about any of that (well, perhaps not about being pushy, but then again, he wasn’t particularly apologetic about it either). Most of all, Aziraphale was the sort of gentle that appealed to Crowley in the worst way.

Crowley wasn’t a gentle man. He’d never been. He was exactly like his frame suggested–all sharp edges and shadowy places where he never, never went. But he craved gentleness the way a starving man craved a steak. He knew it’d probably be too juicy for him after starving for so long, and his stupid self wouldn’t be able to keep it down, but he craved it nonetheless.

Stupid, stupid Crowley.

And yet, it was difficult to keep in mind that that wasn’t a date, when the chef settled in front of them a large selection of sushi and Crowley realised that they were supposed to share a plate. It wasn’t overly inappropriate, if a little forward for a dinner between strangers, but to Crowley felt shockingly intimate. Perhaps because the most he’d shared with a guy was a pizza carton. He hesitated, and was extremely relieved when Aziraphale misunderstood the source of his hesitation.

“Have you ever used chopsticks before, Mr. Crowley?” he asked, and suddenly Crowley felt ridiculous to be called Mister by a guy who was eating from his plate.

He shrugged, taking his time to try and get his brain back in order.

“Not really.”

Aziraphale, who obviously mastered the art to perfection, took his sticks and showed Crowley the ropes.

“You break them apart,” he explained, “then you take the first and hold it this way, like a pen. You hold the second one against your ring finger, pressing it into place with the base of your thumb. Yes, like that, wonderful. Now, you move them. No, not quite that way. Wait, let me show you... ”

Aziraphale demonstrated each step with his own chopsticks and surprisingly nimble fingers, but Crowley was too taken aback by the situation and too frustrated by the stupid sticks that refused to be kept under control to be able to do anything more than fumble his way through Aziraphale’s instructions. Eventually, right one second before Crowley chucked the bloody things to the other side of the restaurant, he felt Aziraphale’s soft palm press against the back of his hand.

“Here, I’ll help you,” Aziraphale offered, voice low and soothing. And Crowley, too stunned for words, let Aziraphale rearrange his stubborn fingers around the chopsticks, the touch warm and delicate and sure, until he was holding the blasted things in a way that Aziraphale seemed to find reasonably satisfying.

“That should work,” Aziraphale declared. He took his hands away, and Crowley almost reached out on instinct, before holding himself sternly back. “Now, try to pick up one of those _Maki_.”

Crowley had absolutely no idea what on earth a _Maki_ was, and was extremely relieved when Aziraphale correctly guessed the source of his distress and discretely pointed at a roll of rice and what Crowley assumed was fish with the tip of his chopsticks. It was a smaller piece, one that Crowley supposed was to be shoved into his mouth in one go. He was too bewildered to think of anything more complex than simply doing what he was told, so he picked up the roll and stuck it into his mouth. It was cool and slimy with a delicate taste, like everything he’d been eating so far, and Aziraphale looked beyond pleased at his newfangled prowess with the chopsticks. Crowley felt encouraged he hadn’t dropped the piece, and eyed the green sauce. He remembered that it was pretty spicy, and made the chewy fish taste a lot better.

“That goes with the food, right?” he asked, just to be sure.

Aziraphale lifted a brow.

“The _Wasabi_ sauce? Yes, well, sure. But it takes away the taste of the sushi, if you ask me. It’s very sharp.”

“I like sharp things,” Crowley answered, though that wasn’t necessarily the absolute truth. He _was_ a sharp thing. That didn’t mean he liked them overly much.

“Ah,” Aziraphale replied. Crowley dipped another what’s-its-name into the green sauce and found the taste much improved.

Dinner went on pretty smoothly, after that. Crowley drank and watched, more than eat, but that seemed to sit quite well with Aziraphale, if the way he worked through Crowley’s own side of the plate was any indication. He asked Crowley if that was all right a few times, wasn’t he hungry?, but at Crowley’s smirking encouragements he tucked in with not so much as a bashful grin. Aziraphale would pluck the small pieces with unerring grace and use nothing but his chopsticks to dissect the bigger ones with a precision worthy of a surgeon, sometimes adding a judicious amount of soy sauce before lifting the morsel ever so carefully to his lips. He was a fussy eater, picking each piece and thoroughly savouring it before moving on to the next, and dinner seemed to stretch on forever.

Crowley found himself enjoying every moment, as he sipped his wine and watched Aziraphale eat. He idly studied the regular features and the bright eyes, the blush of pleasure that dusted the apples of his soft cheeks and the sturdy hands. Aziraphale had rolled up his sleeves at some point, slowly and carefully, and Crowley had been quite taken with the controlled precision of his gestures and the thick forearms that were gradually revealed to his hungry eyes. His gaze kept returning to them, even as it strayed to the barrel chest and the curly fair hair. Crowley thought lazily that he wouldn’t mind getting the blowjob he’d hoped to score by the end of the evening from _this_ specific man, and realised that he wasn’t particularly opposed to repaying the favour either. On his knees, with those steady fingers wound painfully tight around his hair.

Perhaps, that was exactly why he let his mouth run amok and ruin everything. He was pleasantly buzzed and vaguely horny, with his guard down, and when Aziraphale chuckled at their empty bottle and ordered another one, Crowley was simply too relaxed and content to keep himself in check any longer. There was something obscenely, unfairly endearing in the Aziraphale he was getting to know that night, and Crowley knew as he opened his mouth and meant every word that he was well and truly screwed.

“Plying me with food and wine, are you?” he drawled, dangling his empty wine glass from his fingers. “One wonders what you’re planning to do with me, after I’m well fed and thoroughly drunk.”

That seemed to cross some sort of line with Aziraphale. He went rigid, looking at the fast-emptying plate lying between them. Then, he laid down his chopsticks primly on their support and tilted his head.

“You misunderstand, Mr. Crowley. I’d _never_ do that sort of thing. I’d _never_ take advantage.” Aziraphale seemed truly upset by the idea, truly horrified, but whatever soothing joke and apology Crowley was about to utter to assure him that he was actually quite willing died on his tongue, as Aziraphale went on: “I behaved horrendously to you, last time we met. I never meant to be insulting, but I realised that that was the way I came across. I completely butchered what could’ve been a lovely evening for us all, and likely embarrassed poor Anathema, besides upsetting you. It was a beastly thing to do, and that’s why I invited you here tonight. I wanted to apologise. I’ve been meaning to get to that sooner rather than later, but I’m afraid I’m not very good at confrontations, and I didn’t want to spoil yet another wonderful evening.”

Aziraphale’s gaze shone with horrifying earnestness, as he lifted his bright baby-blue eyes to Crowley.

“I truly hope you can forgive me. But rest assured that I would never use this chance to apologise to do something as tasteless as trying to seduce you, especially when you’re drunk.”

And there came the rejection. _Again_.

Crowley felt the disappointment and the anger and something that he would never allow himself to call _hurt_ singe its way through his skin, his veins, his bones, deep into the marrow like the tip of a poisoned arrow. He’d read it all wrong. He’d let himself grow trusting and lazy and soft and he was a twit because it never, ever worked. Soft Crowley was hopeful Crowley and clingy Crowley and no one wanted that. They wanted the slick wanker with a sharp smile and a sharper humour, with a drink in one hand and their cock in the other. No one was interested in a stammering fool nearing forty that melted like a bloody Disney princess at having his chair pulled up and being taught how to use stupid chopsticks. Bloody clichés. What a pathetic idiot he was.

The moment was uncomfortable enough that could only be followed by an uneasy silence, but Crowley’s mouth wasn’t going to let him that easily off the hook.

“What about the wedding?” he asked, completely out of the blue, as his reeling mind latched onto a scrape of thought that was floating aimlessly somewhere in his skull. An apology, Aziraphale had said. Weren’t they supposed to ferret out the details of their ruse? Crowley could definitely do that. Anything was better than decking up his rejection with apologies. Each of them tolled like a dead bell and the noise was deafening.

Aziraphale looked taken aback by that abrupt U-turn in their agonizing conversation.

“What about it?” he said, and there again came that strange expression, that sort of guarded alertness that Crowley couldn’t quite wrap his head around. Aziraphale had gone stiff all of a sudden, clutching the napkin in his hand, face downturned to their shared plate but tilted just enough for him to peer at Crowley from the corner of his eye. There was something closer to a grimace than a smile on his lips.

“The wedding,” Crowley repeated, because there was precious little else he could actually do. “We should talk about it.”

“We really don’t.”

There was something final in Aziraphale’s strained voice, in his straight spine, in his clenched fists. Crowley was still reeling, trying to figure out how to ride that sudden plunge from awkwardness to enjoyment to buzzed attraction to crestfallen dejection to general confusion, and it took him a moment longer than what was strictly necessary to figure out that Anathema had tricked them both. _Again_.

Crowley barely overcame the urge to groan aloud and bury his face into his hands, as he realised that Aziraphale had never changed his mind, and had never meant to talk to him about Anathema’s stupid plan. He was a decent bloke who had realised he’d put his foot into his mouth and wanted to apologise to the miserable bastard who had had a nervous breakdown over a few misspoken words from a complete stranger. Nothing more than that. And since Anathema knew that Crowley had his pride, as battered as it was, and would never agree to a pity dinner from her bloody librarian if she’d put the entire situation in those terms, she’d lied to hungover him to get him to agree, and hungover him was an idiot to boots.

Crowley couldn’t believe that he’d been outfoxed twice in little more than a week by a girl barely out of high school. He really _was_ an idiot. And if he’d got hurt in the process, _again_, like the pathetic tosser that he was, well, he’d deserved it. Perhaps he would learn to think, next time, instead of just agreeing to anything because he couldn’t be bothered to say no and have an actual serious discussion about it, like an adult.

The worst tragedy of all was that Crowley, deep down, was stubborn. He’d agree on a whim, and go along out of boredom, but once he sank his teeth into something, he’d never been very good at letting go, no matter how many times he got knocked over the head. And no matter how sharply rejection stung, how deeply it cut, he would come back for more like a kicked dog, over and over and over. He could learn, of course, but it took time, and he was a pro by now at putting together his splintered dignity after every bone-shattering blow.

He could’ve still left things as they were, before that evening. He could’ve curled up in a corner to lick his wounds until a new scar would pop into existence on the pockmarked surface of his battered heart, then moved on to the next disaster. But he’d got a taste of gentleness now, the first in a long, long time, and he was no better than a junkie with that sort of thing. One taste was enough to get him hooked. And, like a junkie, there was precious little he wouldn’t do to get another fix.

“Why not?” he edged on, suddenly sharp, suddenly focused, the gentle buzz of alcohol burning away into his blood until he was stone-sober again. “If you didn’t mean it that way, what could possibly be so wrong about taking me as your plus one?”

“You don’t know my family,” Aziraphale answered, gaze cold and dark and closed-off. It was a warning sign, but Crowley was just as bad at ignoring warning signs as he was at letting go when he got his mind set onto something.

“And if they’re as terrible as that, why would telling them a little lie be such a big deal?” Crowley purred, pushing his sunglasses down his nose just enough to catch Aziraphale’s gaze. He didn’t like it when people could see his eyes, they gave away too much, but they could also work well as a weapon, and Crowley was never shy about using whatever he had to get what he wanted. “Think it over, Aziraphale. A little lie won’t hurt anyone, and you might just get a pleasant weekend out of it.”

It was the first time Crowley had used Aziraphale’s name. It felt good on his lips, sweet and sticky like a honeycomb. They locked eyes, and Aziraphale’s widened, huge and very blue and almost unblinking. His whole body seemed to still at that touch that wasn’t a touch. A beat. Two. The moment stretched a little too long.

Crowley knew, right then and there. He had him. Oh, the discussion would probably stretch on a little longer, because Aziraphale wouldn’t give up without a fight. But he had him. Crowley had won.

Lucky him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot stress enough how overwhelming I find the love that you guys have been pouring on this story. Each and every comment makes my day a little brighter, fueling the engines that keep me writing even when I’m struggling. Thank you so much, every single one of you <3  
I’m still not sure how long this story is going to be; probably something between 15 and 20 chapters. I’ll give you a heads up as soon as I have something more than a vague idea. And since I can’t seem to keep my Friday schedule, I’ve decided to move my bi-weekly updates to Thursdays.  
I hope you enjoy the chapter!

“No,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley pushed his glasses back into place and lifted a brow.

It should’ve been stern; the same utter, incontrovertible refusal that Crowley had been treated with at the coffee shop.

It wasn’t.

Aziraphale’s spine had lost the unbendable quality it had before, his body slumping just so, as the stiffness slowly leaked from his unclenching muscles. He wasn’t looking at Crowley anymore, choosing to stare at their plate instead.

Background noise. Nothing more. Crowley had got the answer he wanted the moment Aziraphale had actually relented enough to consider his proposal. It’d lasted less than a minute, and it’d been enough.

Crowley felt his lips twitch, felt the giddy smirk push to come out, but reeled himself back in just in time.

_Tread gently, now._

He had him. It wouldn’t do to scare him away.

(_Sure, you have him, for a fix or two_, an ugly part of Crowley’s brain reminded him. _And then what? Will you beg for more, and beg and beg and beg until he’s kicked you away just enough times that you’ll finally give up?_

He hated that part of his brain. It sounded like Anathema’s, even if he knew that Anathema would never be so cruel. She would tell him the truth, but never as brutally as that.

Either way, he made a point never to listen to it.)

“No? Is my company so terrible that a couple of days would be such an unbearable burden?” Crowley asked, in his best casual conversational tone.

Aziraphale shook his head, a little too forcefully.

“Of course not,” he rushed to reassure him, ever so polite. Crowley’s heart cracked a little at that–another of those worrisome dangerous fissures he’d never learnt to fix. “That’s not the point.”

“And what’s the point, then?”

“My family. They...” Aziraphale hesitated, clearly unwilling to speak ill about his family, or perhaps to talk about his family at all. “I know them. They’ll tear you to pieces.”

Crowley allowed his smirk to come alive, open and toothy and amused.

“Are you worried about me, now?” he laughed, though he carefully kept any bite from it. “I think I can handle a few relatives. Unless you mean, of course, that they’ll set their dogs on me and tear me to pieces quite literally.”

(Crowley actually _did_ have a few concerns lying that way. The more he heard about Aziraphale’s phantomatic family, the more he wondered whether he wasn’t about to get shot on sight like a fox in a hen pen the moment he set foot on the property.

He would never admit to it, but the other man’s scoff reassured him to no end.)

“Of course not,” Aziraphale repeated, rolling his eyes. He looked a little huffy now, and Crowley could literally see the stiffness melting away little by little as he relaxed by increments. “But they can be... unpleasant, at times. It’s not something I would subject an innocent bystander to, if I could choose.”

Crowley couldn’t remember the last time he’d been described as innocent in any context, and his barking laugh, this time, could not be efficiently contained.

“I assure you, I can take care of myself. I’m not quite as delicate as that, Aziraphale,” he grinned, repeating the name just for the pleasure of tasting it on his tongue. It did feel good. Crowley could get used to it, he thought.

(_Bad, bad Crowley_, his petty brain unhelpfully chided him. _Are you being this stupid on purpose?_)

Aziraphale paused, the wind temporarily knocked out of his sails. He frowned at Crowley, though, pouty and unhappy and very, very displeased. The waitress chose that exact moment to come back with their wine, and once she’d unscrewed the cork, Crowley waved her away with some drawling thanks. He poured for both, then picked up his flute with a lazy smirk.

“It’s not a joke, Mr. Crowley,” Aziraphale chided him, prissily picking up his own glass and taking the time to appreciate the scent before taking a small sip. He savoured it for a second, then placed his flute back on the table and glowered at Crowley. “You don’t know me, you don’t know my situation, and you really don’t know my family.”

“Tell me, then,” Crowley insisted, just a little. “I’m all ears. I have all the time in the world.”

He realised vaguely, as he said it, that he was actually telling the truth. Not that it was in any way late for a Friday evening, but his plans of picking up some stranger were well on their way to be thoroughly forgotten.

“It’s not... something I feel comfortable talking about over sushi, Mr. Crowley,” Aziraphale replied, with a side glance to the chef and the other kitchen staff. They seemed all way too busy to listen to some customers, especially since the restaurant had been steadily filling up in the last couple of hours, but Crowley could understand the feeling. He wouldn’t want to wash his dirty laundry in public either.

“Very well. We could talk about it somewhere else, if you prefer,” Crowley all but purred, mind lazily considering the flat where he very rarely bothered to bring people over.

“I’m not quite sure I want to talk about it in any context,” Aziraphale sternly reproached him. It seemed for a moment that Crowley’s grasp on him would actually slip, until Aziraphale sighed and took another sip of his wine. “But perhaps I should. It’s hardly fair to drag you into this situation without knowing what you’d be getting yourself into, after all.”

Crowley blinked twice, before realising that that was it. Aziraphale _was_ considering. He’d really won.

_Gentle, now, gentle_, he told himself again. _Just a nudge, not a shove._

“We’re actually doing it, then?” he blurted instead, his mouth running ahead of him while his tipsy brain was still patting itself on the back for a job well done.

And there went soave, Crowley thought. In a swan dive out of the window.

Aziraphale shot him a disbelieving look, clearly unimpressed with his choice of words. But there was a lovely blush crawling up his collar (Crowley took a peek over the rim of his sunglasses to be sure, and yes, the blush was there indeed), and Crowley decided that it’d been worth the withering glare, after all.

“I am _considering_ the merits of Anathema’s idea, Mr. Crowley. Nothing more than that,” Aziraphale coolly replied, enunciating every word with painful accuracy. He could act way prissier than he looked, and God help him, Crowley actually liked it.

“Alright,” Crowley relented, holding himself back a bit to give Aziraphale some space. He sipped at his wine and watched Aziraphale superciliously dig into whatever was left of their sushi. “Talking, then. What do you have in mind?”

Aziraphale took his sweet time to answer, as he chewed on his sushi slowly and carefully. Crowley wasn’t really hungry, but since Aziraphale was punishing him with silence, he decided that stealing the last what’s-its-name with his brand-new chopstick prowess was a fitting revenge. Aziraphale said nothing about it, but the scowl Crowley got for his trouble could’ve spoken in tongues.

“The wedding is in three weeks. We don’t have much time.” Aziraphale paused, as if considering which impression his words were giving away, or the fact that he was actually, finally buckling at the idea. Crowley kept very silent and very, very still. Eventually, Aziraphale gave in with a sigh, and added: “Do you have any plans for this Sunday afternoon, Mr. Crowley? We could go for a walk in the park, if you’re amenable.”

Of course Crowley was amenable. He was practically wagging his tail at the man. But it wouldn’t do to admit it, now, would it? No one wanted to hang out with a desperate moron.

“I could shuffle a few things around, manage a couple of hours,” he answered instead. He didn’t have anything to shuffle in any direction aside from _Golden Girls_ reruns, but Aziraphale didn’t need to know that. “Three o’clock sounds good?”

Aziraphale took his sweet time again to answer, chewing on another piece of sushi as an excuse. It looked like it was taking anything he had to go along with Anathema’s plan, instead of rejecting it on the spot. Crowley did his best not to take it personally, but he was doing a poor job of it. And yet, he was too committed now to let go. He wanted more. And he was going to get it, even if it was about as real as a two-pound note.

“It could work,” Aziraphale cautiously replied. “Do you like St. James’s Park? It’s pretty quiet, as far as parks in central London go. I find it quite pleasing to stroll through.”

Crowley barely refrained from pointing out that a stroll in the park was exactly what couples did, and weren’t they already getting marvellously into the part? But he wasn’t _that_ stupid, not yet.

“Sure,” he said instead. “St. James’s Park. Works for me.”

Aziraphale nodded, then grimaced, then sighed, and then drowned another bit of sushi in soy sauce before slipping it resignedly into his mouth. Crowley watched him go through all of it between one sip of his wine and the next.

The rest of the dinner went pretty quietly. Aziraphale didn’t seem in the mood for chattering anymore, and Crowley didn’t trust his stupid mouth not to run off on its own and ruin everything, so he kept it well and thoroughly shut. The gloomier side of his brain wondered briefly if Aziraphale would be ruminating about the entire situation during the night and turn him down first thing once he sobered up, but Crowley was way too optimistic to listen to it. He would get what he wanted. He would probably choke himself on it, true to his best traditions, but get it he would.

“Well,” Aziraphale eventually declared, dabbing fussily at his lips with a napkin, “That was just lovely. Would you care for some sake, Mr. Crowley?”

Crowley’s face split into a grin. Aziraphale was obviously still rattled, and not particularly comfortable in the tense silence vibrating between them, but he wouldn’t go until he was completely satisfied. For such a prim man, his ability to resist a treat was absolutely abysmal. Crowley would make sure to remember that.

“Anything you want, Aziraphale.”

Crowley’s smug smirk only widened at the suspicious glare Aziraphale aimed at him. It lasted a split of a second, and then Aziraphale was calling over the waitress for a flask of sake and two cups.

“I didn’t even ask,” Aziraphale said, as they waited. The waitress had cleared their plate, and Crowley was pouring the last of their wine into their flutes. “How did you get here? I hope you won’t have to drive home.”

“I do, and I’ll be fine. Don’t worry. I’ve been way more pissed than this, and I still drove my baby home safely.”

“Are you sure, Mr. Crowley?” Aziraphale fretted, as he eyed the glass that Crowley was lifting quite pointedly to his mouth. “I would hate for something to happen to you because of me. Oh, dear. Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked for that sake.”

“Relax, Aziraphale. I’ll be fine. I ate some, I’ll survive. I’m not that pissed, you know.” Crowley shrugged, knocking down whatever was left of his wine and then letting the empty glass dangle from his fingers with an ear-splitting grin stretching across his face. “I’ll start worrying when I see two of you. Until then, everything’s fine.”

“Yes, I’m sure those are quite the safe parameters to consider,” Aziraphale tartly replied. He was about to say something else, but the prompt return of the waitress saved Crowley from what was shaping up to be a lesson in public safety. Crowley made a mental note to give her a particularly good tip.

“Have you ever had sake, Mr. Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, as the waitress laid the small plate between them and left without a word with their empty bottles of wine and tall-stemmed glasses in tow. He seemed to have forgotten everything about cars and drunk driving, and was now delicately pouring the steaming liquid into two very small bone-china tumblers. Crowley peered interestedly at the process. Aziraphale was handling the bone-china pot with a grace that Crowley found oddly appealing.

“Once or twice,” he answered distractedly.

Aziraphale hummed softly in reply, and then placed the pot back on the tray. The tumbler was piping hot, when Crowley wrapped his fingers around it. The white ceramic had groves carved into the smooth surface, and was decorated with a pattern of blue birds. Crowley rubbed his thumb thoughtfully against the groves, and then lifted the tumbler into the air.

“Well, then,” he toasted, against his better judgment. “To your sister’s impending marital bliss.”

Aziraphale grimaced, and then deflated with a sigh. He lifted his own tumbler and tapped it delicately against Crowley’s, peering into his sunglasses with a little suspicious frown.

“To scheming and lying,” he begrudgingly groused.

Crowley spied the ghost of a smile on Aziraphale’s full lips as the other man drained his tumbler, and was smirking to himself when he knocked down his own in one go.

* * *

The evening was drawing to a close, as Crowley and Aziraphale shared whatever was left of their sake and made to leave. Crowley tried to pull his weight when they got the check, but Aziraphale firmly refused to let him even take a peek at the receipt. Crowley eventually managed to convince Aziraphale to let him handle at least the gratuities, and left a generous tip to their waitress. They said their goodbyes in front of the door and went their separate ways.

Crowley was already jiggling his keys in front of his car with a paid parking ticket into his pocket, when he realised he’d completely forgotten about his plans of picking up someone. He was far from drunk, but he was admittedly tipsy, and in enough of a good mood to appreciate some companionship. Then again, he was also too tipsy and in a far too good of a mood to go through the grisly process of wandering into a bar, scouting the crowd and trying his luck with someone that looked like he could use a good shag. And he’d already paid his parking ticket, he reasoned. There was no point in wasting perfectly good money and endangering a relaxed, almost drowsy state for a blow job that might or might not happen. He had perfectly functional hands, and an even better imagination.

He was really getting old, he groused, if a solitary wank on the couch sounded better than a blow job from a stranger in a cramped bathroom. But he’d discovered throughout the years that being comfortable had its own appeal, and that the thrill of semi-public sex had dimmed somewhat through repetition. Either way, he was already slipping into his seat, and Freddy Mercury was belting out whatever was left of _Another One Bites the Dust_ as he pulled his baby in reverse and smoothly drove her out of the parking lot.

He got home around eleven, almost completely sober and without a scratch on his Bentley.

Crowley walked slowly into his flat and considered what to do with his evening, as he took off his coat and scarf and hung them on the rack beside the door. He thought about shouting at his plants to pass the time, but it was far too late for that, and he loathed to remind his neighbours that someone actually lived in his flat, which might prompt them into some horrifying act of kindness, like greeting him when they met him instead of staring him down with narrowed eyes, assuming he was a burglar casing the block.

He took a shower instead, hot enough that his skin turned red and the steam almost choked him. He relished the heat, basking under the spray as he washed and rinsed his short hair. The water slugging down his blushing skin felt like a touch, intimate and luxurious, and Crowley realised that he was getting hard. He tugged at his thickening cock once, twice, almost experimentally, as he thought vaguely about that wank he’d been planning to take. The shower was as good a place as any.

Crowley braced his elbow against the cool tiles and pressed his forehead against it, letting the hot water cascade down his back like a caress. He shuddered at the spidery pleasure of it, and at the more concrete pleasure of his hand wrapped tight around his cock. He let his mind wander, and pictured someone standing behind him, warm lips whispering against the first knob of his bony spine and liquid words that he couldn’t quite understand pressed like kisses against his skin. He imagined hands digging into his hips like brands, a half-hard cock pushing up against his arse. Nothing demanding, not yet. Just there. A silent, quiet moment stretched in time like an elastic band of unlimited resilience, amenable to be pulled and pulled and pulled to infinity without ever breaking.

Crowley felt the pressure of going faster, pulling harder, but he wasn’t quite ready yet. He sucked the damp, heavy air of the bathroom and punched it out in a gasp, pleasure slithering down his spine, pooling somewhere in his belly. He forced himself to go slow, to savour it, not very different from the way Aziraphale had savoured his sushi a few hours before.

(Plump lips, wrapping around a morsel. A cupid bow of perfect pink.)

He chased the memory away, pulling back the faceless man glued against his spine. He pictured a tongue on his nape and a hand sneaking around his hips, pressing against his belly. A hard cock slipping between his arsecheeks, rubbing deliciously against his hole.

Crowley gasped, pulling at his foreskin on the upward stroke and thumbing at the slit. He realised suddenly that he hadn’t been shagged right and proper in years. Most men he met preferred more immediate forms of gratification, or took one look at his swagger and asked to be buggered to kingdom come. He’d been fingered here and there while having his soul sucked out through his prick, but it’d been ages since someone had taken the time to open him up and press deep into him. Suddenly, he yearned that. And he yearned the excruciating intimacy of spreading someone out like a banquet and tonguing their hole until they howled the house down. How long had it been? Crowley couldn’t remember.

He was panting into the tiles, now, his harsh breathing swallowing the squelching sounds his hand made around his drenched cock. He twisted the wrist in the upward pull, rubbed his thumb against the sweet spot under the head. He pictured a heavy hand slipping from his stomach to the dark space between his thighs, gently cradling his balls.

_Gently, gently_.

Crowley shuddered from head to toe in a breathless gasp, balls pulling up as his orgasm started to claw its way through his nerve-endings. It washed over him, spiking over and over like a jagged mountain range. Crowley quivered and groaned, coating the tiles in thick ropes of come.

He breathed loudly through his mouth as the last waves lapped at him, before receding sluggishly like low tide. He could hear the gurgling and bubbling of water once again, the scorching heat along his spine. He blinked the dampness off his eyelashes, and scrubbed a hand against his face when that wasn’t enough. He rinsed himself perfunctorily, and then used the showerhead to wash away the come from the tiled wall.

Crowley tottered out of the shower on unsteady legs, dried himself off, and slipped into a silky black robe. He tied the belt sloppily around his frame and threw himself rather dramatically onto the bed. His hair was still damp, but he didn’t care. He felt drowsy and boneless and tired in a way that wasn’t justified by a dinner out and a wank in the shower. He felt emptied to the marrow, and he didn’t know why.

He closed his eyes.

_Just a moment_, he said to himself.

He woke up the morning later, freezing cold, with an unresponsive arm and a very sudden, very brutal realisation of what exactly had happened the night before, and how deeply into the rabbit’s lair he’d crept.

Crowley slunk under the covers and wished himself back to sleep, hoping that the entire thing would be gone away by the time he woke up again.

It wasn’t.

* * *

Crowley spent the entirety of his Saturday not thinking about his problem and, of course, that meant that said problem spent the entirety of Crowley’s Saturday rolling back and forth into his unruly mind. Bits and pieces of his evening with Aziraphale kept bubbling up when he less expected them, clashing pitilessly against the solid wall of _what-the-fuck-did-I-just-do_ that Crowley had erected to push all his late bad decisions behind and forget of their existence. That also didn’t work. Crowley hated his brain, sometimes.

Scraped and dismantled to its basic shape, the entire situation could be summarised into one single sentence: Crowley wanted to see Aziraphale again. And if that meant playing the doting boyfriend, well, that was what he’d do. His drunken self had simply grasped this fundamental fact of life much faster than his sober self and acted accordingly.

His sober self was a moron. And his drunken self had the survival instinct of a suicidal lemming.

Come Sunday morning, Crowley was even less prepared for the afternoon with Aziraphale than he’d been for their Friday night dinner. He’d been annoyed then, and a little tense about what he’d feared would be an almost unbearably awkward time, but now he was actually looking forward to the occasion. He _wanted_ to go. Which meant he had absolutely no clue about the best way to go about it, or how the entire thing was going to go down. Aziraphale had shredded his expectations to ribbons every single time, and now Crowley couldn’t even begin to fathom what could happen during their casual stroll in the park.

Casual, he thought. Casual was good. He clutched at the word for dear life and refused to let go. He could do casual; he could swagger and grin his way through casual any time of the day.

He would dress casual, to start with. And he casually took two hours to get ready, working his way and his nerves through six different outfits before giving up and choosing an even tighter pair of black jeans, a grey shirt and a fashionable black waistcoat. It was a stroll in the park, after all. He could keep his suits for the wedding, or whatever they’d be up to at some point in the future. Better building his way up than carelessly wasting his best on the ducks.

Crowley left his car into yet another underground parking lot and walked the rest of the way to St. James’s. He was perfectly on time, but he wasn’t surprised to find that Aziraphale was already there. He had his back on Crowley, but the customary old-fashioned coat and the hands primly clasped behind his back were a dead giveaway. He was studying intently the gilded gates of the park’s main entrance with a thoughtful expression on his round face, completely unaware of the steady stream of tourists that mulled about him to gape at the stern facade of Buckingham Palace.

Crowley couldn’t resist.

“Seeing something interesting?” he drawled into Aziraphale’s ear, after slithering up to him as stealthy as he knew how. From the way Aziraphale almost jumped out of his skin, he needn’t have bothered. The golden gates seemed to have absorbed his attention completely.

“Mr. Crowley!” Aziraphale gasped, turning to him. “I’m sorry, I-I must have spaced out a bit. I didn’t hear you coming.”

“Yeah, I sort of noticed,” Crowley grinned. “Can’t see what’s so fascinating over there, though.”

“Nothing, really,” Aziraphale answered with a shrug. “I just realised that I never took the time to look at the crest before. It’s beautiful.”

Crowley glanced at it. It looked exactly like the same kind of rubbish one could find scattered throughout London on any given day, but he kept that inspired thought to himself.

“Well,” he said instead. “Shall we?”

Aziraphale blinked at him for a long moment, before catching up with his meaning.

“Oh! Yes, of course.” He looked a little dejectedly at the people surrounding them. “Maybe we should’ve done this in the morning. It’s hardly private, now.”

“If you wanted private, you could’ve just said so,” Crowley all but purred. Aziraphale glanced sharply at him, and Crowley smirked back.

“Right,” Aziraphale primly remarked, tugging rather ineffectually at the chestnut sweater vest peeking out from under his open coat. “Perhaps we’ll find a quieter spot, once we leave the Palace behind.”

Crowley hummed in reply, sticking his hands into his pockets and following Aziraphale through the gates. It was just past mid-October, and autumn was in full swing. Although Crowley preferred the heat and sunshine of long, lazy summer days, he’d always had a weak spot for the season. There was some morbid beauty in the refulgent brightness nature took on just before everything died, a swan song in vivid reds and deep browns and blinding yellows, and Crowley was all for morbid beauty. There was also something oddly comforting in the warm colouring of the trees, like a last whisper of summer before the inevitable end.

Dead leaves crunched under their feet, as they trod the well-beaten path along the lake. The day was clear and bright, one of the very last beautiful autumn days before the winter set in, and the air was crisp and as clean as it could be reasonable to expect in central London. Bits of English and German and Spanish and French and a plethora of other random languages thrummed like drums around them, as tourists and locals alike crowded the footway while ignoring them completely in a way that only a huge metropolis could afford. A girl in shorts and ponytail ran past them, and they had to step aside to avoid a couple pushing a buggy with a cooing infant.

Aziraphale was being particularly quiet, as they strolled past the west island. Crowley couldn’t very well say that he knew the man enough to tell whether that was uncharacteristically quiet or just befittingly quiet for what was shaping up to be a painfully awkward afternoon, but the silence was strained enough that Crowley was leaning more towards the first option. Whatever was going to happen, Aziraphale wasn’t relishing even a second of it. It was a strangely depressing thought.

Crowley’s gaze flitted along the calm surface of the lake, broken only by the lazy swimming of loud ducks and haughty swans. Both circled the people nearing the shores like packs of lionesses scenting a prey, demanding food from hapless tourists and shady pairs in corduroy overcoats that Crowley suspected were secret agents in disguise, about as subtle as a flick on the nose.

Crowley had sunk so deeply into contemplation that the sound of Aziraphale clearing rather loudly his throat pulled him abruptly back to present.

“So,” Aziraphale said, not quite looking at him, “how’s your weekend going?”

Oh, so that was how they were going to play it. Crowley could do awkwardly pedestrian. He could even chatter a little about the weather, if Aziraphale felt the need to go down that particular road.

“Busy,” Crowley lied. He cocked his head, looking at the tense lines on Aziraphale’s round face. “Yours?”

“It’s been rather lovely, I must say. I managed to get a hold on a pretty valuable first edition of _Mother Shipton’s Prophecies_ and I’ve been pouring on it for almost two days straight.” His voice, that had become warmer and even a little thrilled at this little titbit of information, cooled down again. “Probably not what you’d consider an exciting weekend, I’m afraid.”

Crowley threw Aziraphale a lopsided look, wondering whether he was choosing the wrong strategy, after all. Shallow and disdainful wasn’t what he’d been aiming for, and it bothered him that that was what Aziraphale had picked up from him.

“I’m not much for books,” Crowley admitted, “but I doubt you’d find my Saturday particularly exciting either.”

“Oh?”

Crowley shrugged.

“Worked on my Bentley,” he said, burying that uncharacteristic bout of honesty under his best casual tone. “She needed a bit of looking after, and I had the time.”

He didn’t say that he took out his Bentley and fiddled with her every time he was upset, and it always worked like a charm. He hadn’t exactly been upset the day before (well, not more than the usual level of uncomfortable awareness he constantly tried to repress with uneven results), but coating her in wax and treating the leather of the seats until it shone had calmed him nonetheless.

Aziraphale looked confused for a moment, until understanding dawned on his face.

“Of course, your car,” he declared, clearly satisfied with himself for having extracted that information from Crowley’s apparently cryptic reply.

Crowley rolled his eyes.

“Yes, my car.”

Aziraphale sniffed a little peevishly at his pointed tone.

“Well, since I’ve never driven a car in my entire life, some ignorance on my part is perfectly understandable,” he haughtily replied. “I wouldn’t expect you to know who Ignatius Sybilla was.”

Crowley barked a laugh, lifting his hands in surrender.

“Alright, Aziraphale. No need to get all huffy about that.”

“I most assuredly do _not_ get huffy.”

“Whatever you say,” Crowley replied with a grin. Aziraphale glowered at him and didn’t dignify that with an answer.

Their stroll was taking them past the west island and deeper into the park. As the Palace disappeared behind a wall of reddening trees, the crowd started to thin, the bouts of conversation in foreign languages turning few and far between. Crowley hadn’t been in St. James’s very often, but he seemed to remember that most tourists preferred Hyde Park to its diminutive little brother, and soon they were walking in comfortable quiet. Crowley looked at the small huddle of Duck Island over the arch of the bridge, and the distinct shape of London’s skyscrapers spiking up needle-thin over the thick curtain of well-kept trees.

As neither of them picked up the conversation’s thread again, Crowley pondered about what was to come next. They’d gone all the way there to talk about Aziraphale’s family, but Aziraphale didn’t seem particularly eager to breach the subject, and Crowley wasn’t sure he was supposed to be the one bringing it up. The silence between them was a little more comfortable this time around, and Crowley loathed the idea of destroying that delicate, delectable ease with some blundering attempt at pushing Aziraphale to talk when he wasn’t ready for it. No, it was much better to wait. Crowley wasn’t a patient man, but he did have some self-restrain, however shite he was at employing it in an even marginally efficient way.

They were just coasting the bridge when Aziraphale cleared his throat once again.

“There,” he said, tilting his head towards a lonely bench in a relatively solitary spot along the gravelled footway. “Would you mind sitting for a bit?”

Crowley kept his tongue on a tight leash, lest it blurted out something stupid about how much like an overture that sounded. Next thing he knew, he’d be draping his arm over Aziraphale’s shoulders while pretending to yawn, like an awkward teenager on a date.

Crowley did his best to ignore the train of thought that that single mental picture had sparked like a firecracker into his brain.

“Sure,” he eventually replied, when he felt he had his tongue and brain under control. “Whatever.”

Aziraphale was very pointedly not looking at him as they sat. It hadn’t rained the night before, and the bench was mercifully dry, but the hard wood was freezing. Crowley felt the cold seep through the thick denim of his jeans, chilling his arse to the bones. He remembered very vividly how warm Aziraphale’s hands had been two nights before, and fought a very hard battle against the basic instinct of crawling close to Aziraphale to steal some of his body heat.

They were both gazing quite distractedly at the ducks when Aziraphale finally approached the subject.

“I wanted to talk to you,” he started, before backtracking with a nervous, weak chuckle, “well, obviously. I mean, that’s why we’re here. I’m still not completely convinced of the merits of Anathema’s plan, but I did promise her that I would consider it, and I promised you I’d explain exactly what you’d be getting into, were we to decide to go through with it. So, here we are.”

A small, awkward pause followed Aziraphale’s declaration. He seemed to be welcoming the idea of faking a relationship with Crowley with the same degree of enthusiasm one would deploy to welcome a nice bout of orchitis, but he was welcoming it, and Crowley supposed that beggars couldn’t be choosers.

The silence dragged on, and Crowley took pity on the squirming man sitting beside him.

“You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not comfortable with,” he reassured him gently, startling himself in the process. He hadn’t known it before he said it, but he actually meant it. He didn’t want Aziraphale to become more upset than he already was. It was quite an alarming realisation to have.

Aziraphale eyed him a little warily. He seemed just as taken aback by Crowley’s earnest tone as Crowley himself.

“Thank you, Mr. Crowley,” Aziraphale eventually replied. He looked at his soft manicured hands, gripped tightly into his lap. “Could you... would it be an awful imposition to ask you for a favour?”

What an odd roundabout way to ask for one, Crowley thought. He tilted his head to the side.

“Sure thing. Shoot.”

He didn’t quite know what he’d expected, but it surely wasn’t what came out of Aziraphale’s mouth next.

“Would you mind terribly taking off your sunglasses? Just for a little while.” Aziraphale hesitated, not quite looking at Crowley, but not quite looking away either. “It’d be... easier for me, that way. Seeing your eyes.”

Crowley was too startled by the request to move with appreciable speed, and Aziraphale took the delay the wrong way.

“Silly me, what a strange thing to demand,” he laughed, jittery and forced. “You don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”

It wasn’t a strange thing to demand at all, Crowley thought. Aziraphale wanted rid of his glasses for the same reason Crowley wanted to keep them on–so that Crowley’s stupid emotions could be neatly on display, to be read like one of Aziraphale’s books.

But fair was fair. Aziraphale was going to let him see his exposed, vulnerable side, and Crowley couldn’t be any less.

“No problem at all,” Crowley said, slipping off his sunglasses. The sunshine looked blinding for a moment, without the extra layer, and he felt dizzy by how brightly Aziraphale’s cotton-tuft hair shone in the honeyed afternoon light.

Aziraphale’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer than what was strictly necessary, blue eyes wide and unblinking, then he shot Crowley a grateful smile and looked away.

“Thank you. That’s... that’s very kind of you.”

Aziraphale was fiddling with the cream-coloured scarf around his neck, while Crowley tried to blink the brightness of his blue eyes away, impressed upon his retina like a flash of lightning on a dark stormy sky. He took his time to fold his glasses and hook them carefully onto the first button of his black coat, then turned his body towards Aziraphale, bracing his elbow onto the back of the bench and allowing him free access to his naked features.

“I’m not very comfortable, talking this way about my family,” Aziraphale started haltingly. “You must understand; they are not a bad lot. They are wonderful, in fact. The best family one could ask for. They are just a little oblivious, sometimes. They say things they don’t mean, and they have absolutely no clue how people might take what they say the wrong way. It’s not their fault.”

Distantly, Crowley thought that if Aziraphale had wanted to start his little speech in the most unsettling way known to men and gods, he’d certainly chosen well. It sounded like the blueprint of every single apologetic speech given to abusers throughout the entire course of human history.

“My family, they are very proper,” Aziraphale went on, completely oblivious. “Very attached to traditions. And they have very strong opinions about what’s dignified and what’s not. They are a bit stubborn that way. They never really warmed up to the nonsense of modern times, you know? They like things to be like they were. Very elegant and collected and, well, proper. Old roots and all that. It’s difficult for them to change, though they did change, here and there. My, I’m telling this all wrong.”

Aziraphale let out another uneasy chuckle, hands wringing into his lap over and over as though they were fluttering their way through a magic spell. Crowley had absolutely no idea about what to do. He sensed, however, that an interruption would not be particularly welcomed, so he silently waited Aziraphale out.

“We have a bit of an... academic tradition, you might say” Aziraphale haltingly carried on. “Academia was our second home, in a sense, you know? Strong ties to our alma maters, wide academic networks, those sorts of things. And I think my sibling got a little... carried away. Universities are wonderful places, but people at times can lose sight of the non-academic world, if they stay there long enough. My siblings.... well, they definitely stayed there long enough. And they can be a little close-minded about lifestyles that do not involve prestigious academic tracks.”

Oh, so _that_ was the problem. Aziraphale feared that his arsehole siblings were going to shred Crowley to pieces over his shitty job. The shock might threaten to kill him.

Crowley chuckled, low in his throat.

(He wasn’t bitter about that. He _wasn’t_.)

“Are you worried that your family is going to shit all over my job?” Crowley drawled, pushing his elbow harder into the backseat and lifting his forearm just enough to prop his chin on his hand. “’m sorry to break it to you, but they would hardly be the first.”

Aziraphale glanced at him nervously, as though he’d been about to say something, but then thought better of it.

“My siblings can be quite... blatant in their disregard, Mr. Crowley. I would never want for you to feel offended. And I’m sure they wouldn’t want that either. They don’t mean it _that_ way.”

Crowley highly doubted that, but he kept the thought to himself. If Aziraphale wanted to believe the best about his family, Crowley wasn’t about to rob him of it. He wasn’t _that_ much of a bastard.

“You fret too much. I don’t bruise easily. And I’m not going to punch one of your siblings in the face, if that’s what you’re so concerned about.”

From the alarmed look that Aziraphale shot him, Crowley realised that the thought had never even crossed his mind.

_Good job, you idiot._

“If we... if we do this,” Aziraphale trod on, as though he was forcing every word out of his mouth, “it won’t be a pleasant experience for you, Mr. Crowley. You must understand that. It will be difficult, and... and it’ll require a considerable amount of patience on your part. Can you do that, Mr. Crowley?”

Aziraphale turned fully towards him, staring him down with surprisingly steady eyes. Crowley lifted a brow, recognising the challenge for what it was.

“As I said, it’s not like I’ve never been insulted before.” There was an edge to his voice, something sharp and hard and very, very old. Crowley could hear it, but he was powerless to smooth it down, to soften its razor-like edges. “I’m perfectly capable of holding my own in polite company without throwing a tantrum and embarrassing you. I’ll wear my grown-up clothes and keep my mouth shut. I’ll be the perfect arm-candy. Is that what you want?”

His tone seemed to take Aziraphale aback. He deflated a little, brows knitting over his forehead, mouth downturned.

“I didn’t mean...” he started, then hesitated, then started again. “I think I offended you. Again. I’m truly sorry, Mr. Crowley.”

Crowley waved Aziraphale’s apologies aside, as the tension slowly melted away.

“’s alright. Don’t fret, you didn’t offend me.”

“But my siblings will,” Aziraphale countered. He looked like he was trying to convey something important, and Crowley was startled a bit by the intensity of his stare. “You’ll be with me, as my... significant other. And I fear that my siblings will behave even less pleasantly than usual because of that. They are protective of me, and they’ve always been quite hard on my partners. I can’t see them behaving any differently to you now. And... I’m terribly sorry to say this, Mr. Crowley, but I can’t have you making a scene. It’s my sister’s _wedding_, I can’t... I can’t spoil it. I won’t. I hope you understand.” Aziraphale broke off again, took a deep breath, and looked at him with almost pleading eyes. “It’s a lot to ask, I’m well aware. And that’s why I’ll understand, if you don’t want to do this anymore. You’ve been far kinder to me than what could reasonably be asked of you, and I don’t expect you to go through something like this, now that you know the facts. But please, know that I’m most grateful for the time you’ve given me, and for even considering such a thing.”

As he struggled to follow Aziraphale’s speech, it dawned on Crowley that what Aziraphale was giving him was a way out. That was actually the aim of the entire pretty afternoon: scare him away with dark tales of public humiliation featuring his nefarious siblings. But luck wasn’t on Aziraphale’s side, because while Crowley was a coward in many aspects of his life, he was actually a pro at wanker-handling. He’d met too many through the years not to have acquired the necessary skill-set. And he’d bring Aziraphale’s shite family to heel with an inordinate amount of satisfaction.

The grin on Crowley’s face was as sharp as a razorblade, as he unfolded his glasses and pushed them up his nose.

“Anathema said something about Sussex, I believe,” he purred, drinking in Aziraphale’s wide-eyed stare. “And I think I might fancy a few days in the country, after all.”


	5. Chapter 5

The mood seemed to settle, after they got that out of the way. Crowley would’ve gladly talked more about their supposed arrangement, but Aziraphale wouldn’t hear of it. He’d declared that now that Crowley knew all the basic facts, he should be given the necessary time to consider before making a decision, but Crowley suspected that talking about his family, however briefly, had done a considerable number on him, and the man was simply too drained to sustain another serious conversation. So, they resumed their stroll and chattered about food and books and ducks and, yes, the weather, as the sun slowly set beyond the trees. Crowley discovered that Aziraphale had quite a collection of prophecy books stuffed in his small flat in Soho; that he loved winter, and the old-time cliché of cuddling up on the couch with a book in his lap and a hot cocoa in his hand while outside the storm puffed and raged like the big bad wolf. On his part, Aziraphale found out that Crowley shared his flat with a small jungle of potted plants, and laughed his arse off when Crowley tried to explain to him that the reason they were all so green and beautiful was that Crowley devoted at least half an hour every day to spray them with misty water and terrify them to death.

(“You don’t believe me?” Crowley had asked, a little offended by Aziraphale’s blatant disbelief. “Look, I’ll show you.”

Aziraphale had paid polite attention to the dozens of pictures of potted plants that Crowley had on his phone, but he hadn’t seemed particularly convinced about the effectiveness of his methods.

“It works on Gordon Ramsey’s assistants like a charm,” Crowley had grumbled, only to be treated with one of Aziraphale’s bright smiles and asked:

“And who would this Ramsey fellow be?”

The conversation had taken quite an odd turn, after that.)

It was starting to get dusky by the time they’d walked their way back to the main gates, and they agreed to reconvene at some point during the following week to discuss details, if Crowley, after careful consideration, would still be of the same mind about the entire business. Crowley was pretty certain about it, but Aziraphale had sternly forbidden him to give an answer before taking a few days to reflect upon the very unsettling piece of intelligence he felt he’d been dishing out during the afternoon.

Crowley hadn’t been particularly impressed with the breaking news that Aziraphale’s elitist siblings would behave like complete wankers to him, should they ever meet him, but he’d been more than a little concerned about how Aziraphale had gone out of his way to defend their shitty behaviour. There was something going on there that Crowley wasn’t quite sure how to tackle, and that was perhaps the only thing giving him pause.

But Crowley had never been particularly good at keeping himself out of dangerous waters, and whatever helpful alarm bells went off in his brain, his growing interest for Aziraphale (and a little more curiosity than what could strictly be deemed as healthy) turned them off with barely a thought. He was entirely too invested in this to back off now, and the more he saw Aziraphale, the more he wanted to see him again. He hadn’t been this interested in someone in ages, and while that should’ve been more than enough to have him running for the hills (what with how things had gone with people he hadn’t found even half as fascinating as Aziraphale, and the heartbreak that had followed), his survival instincts had always been shite to begin with.

So, he’d promised Aziraphale he’d give serious thought to everything he’d been told, while knowing perfectly well that he would’ve gone through with it even if Aziraphale had told him that his siblings would smite him on sight like a flock of avenging angels plucked straight from the Bible.

Crowley was so caught up in the entire situation that he’d forgot entirely about the third party of their little arrangement, and was therefore caught off guard when she showed up at his desk on Monday morning, punctual like a heart-attack, to demand juicy titbits of information.

“Well?”

Crowley was mid-way through an e-mail to set up an interview with a bloke in Dorset for Wednesday morning, all the while thinking whether he could fit supper with Aziraphale straight after, and blinked owlishly at the screen a couple of times before turning with a vague grumble to the girl standing beside his desk like some kind of looming doomsday signpost.

“Well what?”

“The dinner! How did it go?”

Crowley frowned at her, struggling to follow. He was still thinking about the crazy fellow in Dorset and supper with Aziraphale and wasn’t exactly at his brightest, especially since he’d barely had the time to drain one single cup of coffee during the previous three hours.

“Which dinner?”

Anathema rolled her eyes, clearly exasperated with his lack of wits that morning.

“Your Friday night dinner? With Aziraphale?”

“Oh, that one.”

Truth to be told, with everything that had been going on ever since, he’d quite forgotten he’d told Anathema about their Friday night sushi delight.

“Yes, _that_ one,” Anathema repeated, full lips slowly stretching into a pointed smirk. “The one you refused to call dinner, last time we spoke. Glad to see it’s graduated to dinner _now_.”

Crowley huffed, trying to redirect his attention to his computer screen, all the while knowing that it was about as useful as trying to mop up the English Channel with a paper towel.

“It went alright,” Crowley eventually muttered, as it became clear that Anathema wasn’t going anywhere until fully appeased. “We decided that your plan had some merits, after all.”

“How have I ever made it so far in life without your overwhelming endorsements, I wonder,” Anathema scoffed in reply. “So, you decided that my plan was viable. Then what?”

“Then we talked about it.”

“And then _what_?”

Crowley hesitated for a split of a second, before deciding against sharing with Anathema their stroll in St. James’s Park. If she’d come to pump him for information, that meant that Aziraphale had been less than forthcoming in that regard, and Crowley wasn’t about to go and spill the beans without knowing whether Aziraphale was on board with it in the first place. It was _his_ family, after all. Crowley wasn’t particularly good at keeping secrets, but he could, and would, if he felt the occasion called for it.

On the other hand, he was fairly certain that Anathema could smell secrets the way predators smelt fear.

“Then _what_, Crowley?”

“Then we considered talking about it some more.”

It was the vaguest answer he could’ve given her, and yet Anathema quickly dismembered it and came up with a quite accurate conclusion.

“You’ll be meeting him again, then.”

“Yeah, possibly.”

“Possibly?”

Crowley squirmed in his uncomfortable chair, feeling rather like a worm on a hook.

“Alright. Probably.”

“Probably.”

“Alright, _fine_, later this week. Are you happy, now?”

Anathema hummed under her breath, staring him down with the same cold detachment of a mad scientist in a horror movie.

“What about your rendezvous in the park? You haven’t said anything about that.”

Crowley stiffened. So, she _had_ spoken with Aziraphale. And Aziraphale seemed to be much less tight-lipped than he was. Crowley wasn’t sure what he thought of that.

“The sushi restaurant was too crowded and we wanted to talk a little in private,” Crowley curtly answered. “I’m working here, you know. Why are you bothering me, if you’ve already talked to Aziraphale?”

“I was curious to see what you’d say,” Anathema replied with a shrug. “You usually talk my ear off about the guys you see. It’s weird to see you so gossip-shy, but sweet.”

Crowley was so taken aback that for a moment all he could do was to stare at her with eyes as wide as saucers. Anathema seemed to take it as her leave.

“Well, _I_ have work to do. I’ll see you later,” she said, turning on her heels.

“I am _not_ seeing him!” Crowley called after her, “We’re just... discussing things, that’s all!”

“Sure, Crowley. Whatever you say.”

“It was _your_ idea!”

Anathema slowed down just enough to throw a smirk at him over her shoulder.

“One of my very best,” she purred, before resuming her brisk pace until she was out of range, and Crowley wasn’t going to stoop so low as to shout his business to the entire office.

He hissed at his computer screen instead, since he didn’t have any plant at hand to abuse, and if he slammed his fingers on the keyboard with a little too much enthusiasm finishing that e-mail, well, enthusiasm was such a rare occurrence in that place that no one would probably recognise it if it bit them in the arse.

* * *

Aziraphale had been delighted at the suggestion of an early dinner on Wednesday evening, and since he was scheduled for an early shift that day at work, he’d be done by four and ready for a ‘lovely afternoon tea’, whatever that meant. Crowley was fairly sure he’d never had an afternoon tea in his entire life, but he seemed to remember something about scones and cucumber sandwiches from whatever period drama he’d seen on the telly.

They’d agreed to meet in a small tearoom halfway between Aziraphale’s library and Crowley’s office, but the interview had lasted longer than expected, and the trip back had been a complete nightmare of traffic jams and detours. By the time Crowley had parked his Bentley and jogged the rest of the way to the tearoom, he was fifteen minutes late. Aziraphale was already there, of course, but it warmed Crowley’s heart to see that he looked like he was merely waiting, this time, instead of resigning himself to being stood up.

Aziraphale’s smile could’ve lit up a small room, when he spotted Crowley walking briskly towards him. He was wearing his usual gabardine coat and worn-out waistcoat, and Crowley realised with a start that those clothes, that had seemed quite odd and tragically out of fashion at their first encounter, actually suited him. Not just that–Aziraphale looked _handsome_ in them. It was quite an unsettling epiphany to have.

“Here you are, Mr. Crowley!” Aziraphale called, so blatantly happy to see him that Crowley for a moment was at a loss for words. “I hope you won’t mind, but I’ve already gone inside and booked a table for us. Wouldn’t want anyone stealing the best place by the window.”

“’s good,” Crowley eventually found the wherewithal to answer. “Sorry ‘m late, I had a thing out of town and the road was absolutely bonkers today. Could’ve only been worse if the M25 had caught on fire.”

“Oh my, that’s quite the picture!” Aziraphale chuckled. “Let’s take a seat, then you can tell me all about it.”

And so Crowley found himself seated at a quaint little window table in a quaint little tearoom in a secluded corner of central London, sipping black coffee and unwinding from a shite day while recounting to Aziraphale one of the weirdest interviews he’d ever had the dubious pleasure of carrying out until now.

“And you know, this bloke was absolutely _convinced_ he’d been having late-evening chitchats with the Cerne Abbas Giant for the past twenty odd years and that it was now the time, figure that, to share with the world the doomsday rubbish he’d got so far.” Crowley was chuckling as he talked, but Aziraphale was laughing loud enough that people were beginning to stare. Crowley, who was feeling quite pleased at being the source of Aziraphale’s genuine amusement, wouldn’t have given a toss about any of them if they’d been on fire. “You’d think that if a chalk giant with a monstrous erection knocked at your door to let you know very politely that the end is nigh, you might ask yourself a few questions, but not this bloke, oh no–he’d clearly decided that someone with a cock that size had to know a thing or two ‘bout what makes the world go ‘round, and up he went to share such wisdom with his fellow man.”

Aziraphale laughed even harder at that, properly tearing up as Crowley pointedly ignored the warning look he got from an older man two seats away, who didn’t seem to be particularly appreciative of the word _cock_ being used either in a respectable establishment such as that or in his presence. The stuck-up old wanker could’ve done with a little bit of it in his life, in Crowley’s opinion, but Crowley sure as hell wasn’t about to offer.

As Aziraphale slowly sobered up, Crowley stole a cucumber sandwich (he _had_ been on the money about that, he was so proud of himself) and took a nibble. He wasn’t particularly hungry, but Aziraphale had insisted on a proper afternoon tea, and their table was loaded with home-made scones, jam, clotted cream, and a full array of assorted little sandwiches cut quite prettily in little triangles.

“You have a rather interesting job, my friend,” Aziraphale chuckled. He daintily wiped his eyes, mindful of the glasses perched low on his nose.

Crowley did his best not to preen at the perfectly harmless endearment that had slipped past Aziraphale’s lips.

_My friend_.

Crowley felt like he’d passed a test and earned some sort of graduation. He was such a pathetic git that he almost felt sorry for himself.

“Wouldn’t know about _that_,” Crowley drawled, driving the point home with a fancy gesture of his hand. “But I do meet my fair share of crazy fuckers, that for sure.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have many exciting stories to share,” Aziraphale remarked, as he picked up a scone and used his butter knife to slice it open. “Just students being, well, students. Forgetting deadlines, forgetting books, forgetting university cards, forgetting backpacks, coats, hats, umbrellas, pens, USB-sticks, shoes, and one time, memorably, _underwear_.”

“Underwear?” Crowley repeated, voice vibrating with a hidden laugh. “What did your lot do with it?”

“We considered salting and burning it, but eventually we settled on throwing it away and never, ever investigating the chain of events leading to a pair of pants being stuck into a battered copy of _The Wealth of Nations_.”

Crowley laughed out loud this time. He’d never been a university student, but it looked just like the kind of mischief he’d have got himself into, if he had. He wondered if Aziraphale ever had. He wondered, briefly and alarmingly, if Aziraphale had ever fucked in the library, and, if not, whether he ever felt like he was missing out, and whether he’d consider it now.

Oh, he really, _really_ wasn’t going down that road. He was interested, yes, no use in denying it, but if that interest was ever going to develop into a hopeless crush, he wasn’t going to let himself be led there by his prick. He _did_ have some dignity left. Somewhere.

“I could tell you about the chain of events leading to a power shortage in quite a sizable chunk of Manchester three years ago,” Crowley drawled, “but I don’t think the old lady behind you would appreciate the details of that particular story.”

Aziraphale chuckled, bright and warm. Crowley propped his chin on his hand and watched him layer clotted cream and strawberry jam on the soft surface of his sliced scone with the careful grace of a master clockmaker slotting tiny gears into a case.

“Best not, perhaps. It’s _Manchester_. Who knows what they got going on over there.”

“Leaky plumbing and unfortunate location choices, I’ve been told.”

“_Mr._ _Crowley_!” Aziraphale gasped, feigning shocked outrage with the impressive skills of an old spinster from a 1950 movie, only to ruin it a moment later with a giggling laugh. “Really, you must not believe everything you read on the papers. It’s usually a bunch of rubbish.”

Crowley couldn’t help but _roar_ a laughter at that, and Aziraphale looked rather smug as he fussily took a small bite off his scone and narrowed his eyes in blissful pleasure.

“_Lovely_,” he breathed, and Crowley sobered up so quickly he almost got whiplash. He had a sneaky suspicion that his treacherous brain would remember that whisper and that face for a very, very long time.

They kept on a lazy chatter for a while, as Aziraphale worked his way through the oven-warm scones and Crowley picked at the sandwiches. Aziraphale didn’t seem to be in any hurry to get to the point of their meeting, as per usual, but Crowley could only take so much casual banter and bright smiles before his brain forgot that they were there for a reason, and that reason wasn’t to bask in Aziraphale’s presence like a lizard under the sun.

“Well,” he said eventually, taking advantage of a lull in their conversation, “didn’t we have something to talk about?”

Aziraphale’s pleased smile dimmed at the reminder, and Crowley immediately regretted his decision, even if he knew it’d been for the best. He couldn’t let himself forget that those weren’t dates, that he wouldn’t be bringing Aziraphale home after and press him down into his mattress and good _God_, where was that even coming from now?

Bad, bad Crowley. Focus.

“Of course,” Aziraphale sighed, primly dabbing at his mouth with a corner of his napkin. “I suppose you’ve been thinking it over, during the past few days.”

“Yeah,” Crowley blatantly lied. Well, it wasn’t a complete lie, since he’d been thinking about Aziraphale, but he surely hadn’t wasted any time pondering about his shite family. “Still good to go.”

Aziraphale levelled an openly disbelieving look at him, before shifting his gaze down to his plate. Crowley realised suddenly that Aziraphale had been expecting a flat refusal, and had actually no idea how to deal with that unexpected go-ahead.

“Are you sure? I wasn’t exaggerating, you know.”

Crowley had no doubt that, if anything, Aziraphale had been underselling his siblings’ natural gift to rise to the occasion and show outstanding arsehole skills, but that didn’t concern him overly much.

“I’m sure, Aziraphale. You can count me in.”

Aziraphale seemed only marginally reassured by Crowley’s eagerness, as though he was still conflicted about something. Silence stretched between them for an almost uncomfortably long time, then Aziraphale let out a loud sigh and seemed to deflate somewhat.

“All right, then. If you feel quite sure.”

“_Very_ sure.” Crowley tipped his head down and looked straight at him from over the rim of his sunglasses. “I’m not going to say yes and then abandon you last minute. If I say I’m in, I’m in.”

Aziraphale shook his head.

“I’ve never doubted that,” he said, before aiming a small smile at him. “You’re quite extraordinary, Mr. Crowley. I can see why Anathema likes you so much.”

Crowley stilled, taken so completely unaware by the praise that he couldn’t quite put together anything resembling a cogent reply.

Luckily, Aziraphale saved him from his misery.

“Anyway. If you’re quite sure.” Another brief, piercing glance. At Crowley’s lack of answer, Aziraphale chugged down his tea with the sad grimace of a man who was hoping against hope that it would turn out to be something with a decent percentage of alcohol in it, but wasn’t particularly surprised at being sorely disappointed. Then, he sighed again and went on. “Just to be clear, we’re talking about an entire weekend. The wedding is planned for the tenth of November, which is a Sunday, but I can’t just show up for the ceremony and then leave. My sister will have prepared for us a place to stay in our family home. It’s quite a lovely house, truth to be told, which is why Michael has decided to host both ceremony and reception there. It’s in Sussex, not very far from London. I think Anathema told you that?”

Crowley nodded, and Aziraphale let out a small sigh.

“I’ll be expected there by Friday evening. Dinner with the families. A little helping out on Saturday, here and there, where needed. Then the wedding on Sunday. My siblings will handle the tidying up. That’s all, essentially.”

It was less daunting than Crowley had previously thought. A weekend was still a whole lot of time, especially when surrounded by an entire pack of arseholes on the prowl, but it wouldn’t be the worst he’d ever suffered. And it would still be a weekend with Aziraphale. Who thought that he was quite _extraordinary_.

Yes, he could definitely do a weekend. No problem.

Aziraphale was staring at him with an odd look on his face, and Crowley realised quite belatedly that some kind of feedback was required. He nodded, a little too emphatically perhaps, and tried to get some of his groove back by sprawling himself over the entire surface of his chair as far as physics would allow. He spared a moment to appreciate the padding, and how nicely it felt on his bony arse.

“Sounds good,” he eventually managed to drawl. Aziraphale kept looking at him funny for a moment longer, probably wondering what he’d ever done to deserve a moron such as Crowley as his lot in life, but then he mercifully carried on.

“If you... If you decide to come, it’d be best to get there together on Friday and stay for the weekend.” Aziraphale took a small, uneasy break. “I’m sure you’re a very busy man, Mr. Crowley. I don’t expect you to be free for such a long time. I will perfectly understand if you decide that’s not quite what you’ve signed up for, after all.”

Another way out. Although he appreciated the sentiment, Crowley was getting quite fed-up with them. Every time he turned one down, he was reminded that no one was forcing him to go through yet another potentially disastrous situation, and that when everything would eventually crash and burn, as it always did, there would be no one left to blame but himself.

“I said I’d do it,” he replied, more sharply than intended. He saw Aziraphale recoil, and felt immediately guilty for the rather harsh tone. He had an inkling that, aside from the arsehole siblings business, Aziraphale was quite uncomfortable with the idea of asking such a huge favour to a complete stranger, and he didn’t need to be made to feel like he was a barely-tolerated burden. Crowley gentled his voice a little, as he carried on. “’s ok. Really. A weekend is not that long. I think I can deal with your family for one weekend.”

Aziraphale didn’t seem too sure about it, but he dipped his head in a nod and nervously poured himself another cup of tea, emptying the pot. Crowley watched him fiddle with milk and sugar, then pick up as daintily as humanly possible the silver spoon to mix the lot with a gentle stirring motion. There was something irresistibly charming in the measured way Aziraphale moved, and Crowley thought vaguely that he could just stare at the man doing exceedingly trivial things to the end of time.

Oh, that was going to be a long, _long_ weekend indeed.

“That’s... well, that’s settled, then. Wonderful,” Aziraphale exhaled, not quite looking at him. “I supposed we should... hammer out some fine points, if you will.”

That was more familiar territory for Crowley. He grinned, wide and sharp and pleased, and hooked an elbow over the backseat of his chair.

“Work on our versions, you mean. Make sure we got our story straight.”

“Yes, well. I wouldn’t put it _quite_ that way, but, erm. There are... details we should talk about. And it would do us good to meet a few more times. Get used to each other.” Aziraphale frowned at the tablecloth, sipping at his tea in a quite obvious attempt at taking time. “My siblings are pretty conservative, so at least they won’t expect us to be particularly... affectionate in public.”

Crowley hadn’t thought about that, and now, apparently, there would be no need to. He skidded his way from surprise to interest to excitement to disappointment tailspin-quick, but eventually his brain got stuck on a bit of Aziraphale’s little speech that in the overall enthusiasm had been previously overlooked.

Aziraphale wanted them to meet again. He wanted them to get used to each other. That meant quite a few dinners and afternoon teas and strolls in the park, if they had to look like a couple in a few weeks’ time. Crowley made a mental note to himself to point out that it was quite a feat–one which would require a pretty intensive practice programme, if they wanted to get appreciable results in such a short period.

“Do you want to start now?” he asked instead, tilting his head.

“Do we have to?” Aziraphale murmured, looking conflicted. “It’s just... it’s getting quite late, don’t you think?”

Crowley took a look at his expensive watch. It was barely six o’clock, which wasn’t late according to anyone’s standards, but they _had_ been there for almost two hours. Crowley hadn’t even realised it.

It was also a very blatant excuse.

“Do you want to leave?”

Aziraphale wriggled a little in his seat, hands cupping his mug and gaze shifting about, looking at everything but Crowley.

“I’d rather stay a little longer, but you don’t have to keep me company, if you have other matters to attend to. You’ve been already kinder to me than I could ever reasonably expect from anyone. Please, believe me when I say that I really appreciate it.”

Crowley didn’t feel particularly kind. He felt greedy. He _wanted_ to stay. But saying any of that out loud would never do.

“I have some time,” he exhaled instead, resuming his comfortable sprawl. “And I think I could use some more wicked stories about the den of iniquity where you happen to work.”

Aziraphale’s answering laugh was pleased and bright and just a little sly. Before he knew it, Crowley was treated to almost two hours’ worth of tales of courage and foolishness and dedication and plain idiocy as Aziraphale laid down an impressive array of anecdotes just for Crowley’s entertainment. Crowley laughed himself hoarse and dealt with any disapproving glare the way he usually did–glowering right back and, in one memorable occasion, licking his teeth with a smouldering smirk to an elderly gentleman who almost got a stroke over his soup.

He earned a sound scolding for it, but Aziraphale was stifling a giggle so badly throughout his entire rebuff that it was quite difficult to take him seriously at all.

* * *

It was almost nine when Crowley got home. It’d started raining cats and dogs while he chatted amiably with Aziraphale in the tearoom, and his Bentley was soaked to her gears as he drove her safely into his parking lot. Forecasts swore up and down that they’d get a sunny weekend (or at least as sunny as October in London could be), and Crowley wasn’t thinking about another lovely stroll in the park on a Sunday afternoon–he wasn’t thinking about it at all. They’d already decided for a brunch on Friday in what Aziraphale had described as a ‘charming little shop, with the best Ceylon in London and absolutely scrumptious angel cakes’, and it wouldn’t do to get greedy.

(Well, greedier than he already was, anyway.)

The idea, however, didn’t seem amenable to leave him alone any time soon, and Crowley walked into his flat with an odd feeling in his chest, as though something was slipping slowly but steadily out of his grasp and he was utterly powerless to stop it, whatever that was. He tried to distract himself by spraying liquid fertilizer on his plants and threatening them with destruction should they ever think about sporting something as insulting as a leaf spot, but his heart wasn’t in it. Crowley didn’t want his plants to think they were being neglected (or worse, given free rein to do whatever they pleased), so he stalked through the greenery casting menacing glowers left and right and snarled quietly at a few rubber plants for good measure. Natural order being restored, he went for a shower and then took his time fixing his hair.

(Last time he’d gone to sleep with wet air it’d been such a nightmare getting it back into some reasonable shape that Crowley had vowed he’d never let himself go so shamefully again. He might not have an overabundance of dignity lying about, but he had _standards_, and he’d be damned if he stooped so low as to lose those too.)

Important business being taken care of, Crowley flung himself onto the couch and turned on his telly. Wednesday was truly a wretched day as far as television programmes went, he mused, flitting from one channel to the next. Perhaps he should just cave and get a Netflix account like everyone else. Cable wasn’t much of an improvement, and he liked the idea of being able to watch what he wanted when he wanted it. At least he’d put his giant smartTV to good use. He’d chosen it because it was stylish, not because he was particularly concerned with things such as picture and sound quality, but it was wasted nevertheless on reality shows and _The Great British Bake Off_.

Eventually, Crowley dug up a _Fawlty Towers_ rerun and settled down to watch. He felt drowsy and lazy and vaguely sleepy, cosy and oddly satisfied with his afternoon tea (or whatever it was called) with Aziraphale. It’d been a pleasant time, but then again, being with Aziraphale was _always_ a pleasant time. Crowley couldn’t get over how at ease he felt with him, how relaxed. He laughed and joked and flirted and riled him up and it never felt like a chore. It was even stranger, if he thought about how they had started off, with that painfully embarrassing coffee they’d shared with Anathema. It just felt so comfortable being with him. Crowley had never experienced anything like that in his entire life. He’d been hit hard, at times, and had ridden with a shiver of pure bliss down his neck billows of excitement as high as tidal waves, but he’d never been so loose, so content.

Crowley sprawled out even more lazily on his couch, burrowing a snug nest for his head into one of his fashionable faux-leather pillows while his feet dangled over the armrest down the other side. He was wearing his silky black robe, and he knew that, despite the central heating he had in his flat, he’d get cold pretty soon, but not yet. The flap of his robe was trailing onto the floor, exposing a long, pale leg, all bones and sinews. Crowley had always wanted to get a proper tan, but he didn’t have the skin tone to pull it off. If he got too much sun, he’d freckle and turn an unflattering shade of red before starting to peel. He wondered lazily if Aziraphale did get all nice and tanned in summer, with that cotton-tuft hair of his, or if he suffered from his same unfortunate complexion issues. Crowley, however, had a sneaky suspicion that the real reason behind Aziraphale’s milky skin tone was that the man was way too happy indoors with his books to bother going outside.

On the telly, Basil was yelling at the chef for something Crowley didn’t quite catch. Crowley had vague memories of seeing that episode before, but he’d forgot enough of the plot that it was as good as new. He bent a little to scratch an itch on his knee, and when he relaxed against the pillow, he left his hand where it was, at mid-thigh level. His palm felt warm and a little scratchy against the skin, roughened up by hours spent working in bars and pubs in his youth and handcare that was sporadic at best. No one had ever complained about his hands not being buttery-soft, after all, and he didn’t have the perseverance to turn whatever little self-care he managed to squeeze here and there into a more dedicated approach.

Crowley slowly dragged his palm up his thigh, feeling the skin catch at the little grooves and asperities on his palm. His slumbering mind lingered on the memory of Aziraphale’s palm pressed against the back of his hand to teach him how to use the chopsticks, warm and sturdy and surprisingly well-cared for. Aziraphale’s hands would feel lovely on him, Crowley mused. Sure and strong and broad and yet as smooth as the most expensive suede.

There was a spark of something unsettling, something sharp and cautionary slithering underneath the complacent drowsiness. That was dangerous ground. But the feeling of his thumb drawing lazy circles just along the ridge of his inner thigh was much more riveting than any shapeless uneasiness, and Crowley harrumphed the thought away.

Crowley parted his legs with a soft sigh, freeing the soft, sensitive inner thigh to his hand’s idle explorations. He shuddered gently, as he palmed the sinewy muscle and roughly dragged his palm up toward his crotch. His nipples had never been particularly sensitive, but his thighs made up for it in spades. Crowley thought of Aziraphale, of the hungry look he got in his eyes when he unabashedly eyed his food. He wondered if Aziraphale would stare at him the same way, as though he wished for nothing more than swallow him whole.

There was an ache in Crowley, a desperate need to be _wanted_ that had never been slackened. He pictured those pale, ravenous eyes, blazing at him from above as Aziraphale pressed both his buttery-soft hands on Crowley’s thighs and inched slowly up and up and up, rucking up the messily belted robe around his navel.

Crowley slept naked, and he rarely bothered with underwear in the privacy of his own home. His cock was already taking an interest in the proceedings, peeking out half-hard from the haphazardly overlapping lapels of his robe. Crowley knocked the shimmering black silk back above his hips with a flick of his wrist and then pressed both palms against his inner thighs, hard and steady and so close to his crotch that the backs of his indexes brushed enticingly against his bollocks.

Crowley groaned, loud and unrestrained, as he dragged his hands up to the jutting projection of his hips before wrapping one of his palms around his cock and cupping his balls with the other. He pumped his length once, from root to tip, and there he stopped to play with the foreskin, pushing it back from where it still clung to the damp head and thumbing at the slit. His other hand was rolling his balls against his palm in a gentle steady motion, his middle finger reaching lazily behind to stroke at the paper-thin, oversensitive skin just behind his sack. Crowley thought about Aziraphale’s soft, soft hands, and wondered if he’d go hard and fast, like many men Crowley had been with, eager to make him ride the edge of a pleasure so sharp it set his teeth on edge. But no. Crowley had never seen Aziraphale rush through anything, and somehow he doubted he’d do that with him. No. Aziraphale would drag it out, eat Crowley one piece at a time until there was nothing left.

(Not even need.)

Crowley thumped his head into the unyielding pillow, thighs tensing and relaxing in turn as he started to pump his cock in earnest. He forced himself to go slow, to feel every slide up to his scalp, pleasure coiling low in his belly warm and sticky like honey. He vaguely considered adding lube to the mix, but he was already too far along to get up and fetch some. Besides, there was some sort of peculiar pleasure in being able to focus on the rough slide of foreskin along his length, over and over and over, smooth and a little damp against his palm, and he could feel the divine pressure of his fingers more vividly without anything slippery to ease the way.

He dragged the foreskin over the glans in the upward stroke, twisting the wrist to squeeze the sweet spot under the ridge, before thumbing the slit on the way down. He thought about Aziraphale looming over him, humming, gently whispering something he couldn’t quite make out as he readjusted the grip he had on his balls and pushed his middle finger a little lower. The neglected skin of his hole fluttered at the touch, and Crowley’s toes curled as he thought fuzzily that it’d been too long since he or anyone else had gone there, teased the rim, pushed inside. He _did_ need lube for that, though, so it’d have to be another time. But he could still feel the glorious drag of skin on skin against the quivering rim, or press the tip just so to feel it give way, open up around his trimmed fingernail.

Aziraphale wouldn’t be satisfied with that, though, Crowley liked to imagine. He’d get his fingers nice and slippery and push inside, gentle and slow and unyielding, relishing how tight Crowley felt around them, vice-like and hot and quivering as Aziraphale unhurriedly pumped his straining cock.

Crowley let out a moan that was almost a sob, hand working furiously along his prick and fingers rubbing his hole and perineum and bollocks in a frenzy. He could feel pleasure misfiring along his nerve-endings, balls pulling up as hard as walnuts. Aziraphale was watching him with a pleased smile, bright and warm and lovely. He was still whispering, Crowley could see his lips moving through eyes squeezed tight against the onslaught of shuddering pleasure.

His orgasm was already licking at his spine like wildfire, down his legs and up his chest to his clenched toes and tingling lips, when Crowley finally heard what Aziraphale had been saying to him, over and over and over.

_You’re quite extraordinary, Mr. Crowley. Quite extraordinary. Quite extraordinary._

Crowley shuddered his way through his climax, with just enough wherewithal left to wrap his hand around his cockhead to avoid striping his couch in come. His orgasm seemed to go on and on, one tidal wave after the next, as he clawed his inner thigh with his free hand and gasped and groaned to the ceiling. Crowley rode it out until it subsided, leaving him a dirty, panting mess on his faux-leather couch while Basil Fawlty in the background called his wife ‘my little piranha fish’ and rushed to hide a body. He was sweaty all over, robe rucked up almost to his nipples and hand still wrapped around his cock. His heart was thumping violently in his chest, and his breath was coming ragged and almost painful to his lungs. His prick was taking its time to soften up again, and his head was spinning. He felt completely, painfully awake now, any residual drowsiness gone down the loo as the soft echo of Aziraphale’s voice ringed in his ears.

_Quite extraordinary. Quite extraordinary._

Aziraphale had said that, and meant it. Crowley knew he’d meant it, like he knew that Wales and Scotland and Northern Island were (with various degrees of willingness) part of the United Kingdom, like he knew that black coffee tasted better than any kind of tea he’d ever tried and that leaves would crunch ever so wonderfully under his feet if he took a stroll through St. James’s park that time of the year.

Aziraphale had meant it, and Crowley couldn’t help but stroke that single thought over and over and over into his mind.

_You’re quite extraordinary, Mr. Crowley._

Crowley could feel something warm and shuddering unfurling into his chest like poison ivy, and he knew right then and there that he could try backing out as much as he wanted, he could stomp his foot down and apply as much friction as he could, but there was no stopping now, not going back, no escape route. He was rolling and thundering his way down like an avalanche, and no clawing at the muddy ground could keep him from falling.

He was gone, well and truly gone. And even if he knew that the shock of hitting the ground would shatter his bones, there was a small, battered part of himself holding Aziraphale’s warm smile close to his chest that made him think that maybe, _maybe_, it’d be worth the pain, it’d be worth the heartbreak.

What a stupid fucker he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve barely managed to hold on for four chapters before caving and writing the compulsory needy wank that ushers us in pining territory *facepalm*.  
Oh, well.  
Be warned, folks. More pining and wanking ahead.
> 
> (As a side note, _Fawlty Towers_ is a riot and [this](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cerne_Abbas_Giant) is the Cerne Abbas Giant. You're welcome.)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated today because I’m terrible at keeping regular schedules, no matter how hard I try. I hope you’ll enjoy the unexpected chapter, folks!  
Next update will probably be as planned, on the 2nd of January. If you celebrate it, have a lovely Christmas <3

Aziraphale’s ‘lovely shop’ turned out to be a warm little place tucked away in an unsuspecting corner of central London, not far from Covent Garden. Since Aziraphale’s shift that day would start later in the afternoon, they’d decided to meet for Crowley’s lunch break and have something that could work as a meal for Crowley (who would’ve had no qualms skipping lunch entirely, but Aziraphale had insisted with something close to indignation in his voice) and breakfast for Aziraphale. They had compromised for a late brunch with plenty of tea and coffee.

Crowley had made perfect time, for once, and Aziraphale’s bright grin was blinding.

“Good morning, Mr. Crowley,” he cooed, happily ignoring the fact that for most people half past eleven wasn’t exactly morning anymore. He was dressed in his worn gabardine and tawny waistcoat, which Crowley was starting to suspect constituted his workplace attire. The golden chain hanging from his pocket tingled softly every time he moved.

“’morning,” Crowley hummed, eyeing the shop’s facade a little mistrustfully. It was painted a greenish sort of hue that had clearly seen better days, washed out and peeling as it was, and the sign over the huge window that read _Heavenly Delights_ was half eaten away by London’s unforgiving weather and missed more than a few letters. A thick, frilly curtain, hung on the other side, obstructed the view into the shop.

Correctly guessing the source of Crowley’s misgivings, Aziraphale casted a harried little smile at him.

“I know it doesn’t look like much from the outside,” he pleaded, “but it’s really quite charming on the inside. Shall we?”

Crowley let himself be led through the door, stepping into a small shop with few tables and fewer customers. It didn’t really look like much on the inside either, in Crowley’s opinion, but it was quiet and toasty, and he relished the heath.

The shop had a rather rustic look to it, which wasn’t really Crowley’s scene, but it was clean, and the woman behind the polished wooden counter seemed genuinely friendly. She beamed at them, greeting Aziraphale by name and shepherding them to an empty table. She left them with two menus and a promise for a Ceylon tea and a black coffee. Aziraphale shot Crowley a little anxious look as he shook off his beige coat and primly folded it over the back of his chair, before taking his seat.

Crowley had taken some extra care in his clothes for the day, making sure that his black jeans looked painted on him and that his grey button-up contrasted dramatically with the red of his hair. He got his satisfaction in the quick once-over Aziraphale graced him with as he got rid of his own coat, and Crowley preened unabashedly at the attention. He draped coat and scarf on the back of his chair and sprawled his loose limbs all over the hard wooden seat, mourning a little the comfortable padded chairs of the tearoom where they had met last.

“I must say,” Aziraphale sighed, as he took one of the menus and pushed the other towards Crowley, “I feel a little guilty about today.”

“Oh?” Crowley mumbled distractedly, peering at his menu with no particular enthusiasm. There was very little in it that appealed to him.

“I asked you to come all the way here from work, when this place is practically at my doorsteps. It was a little selfish on my part.”

“Don’t fret, Aziraphale. ‘s fine. I like taking my Bentley around, even if traffic in London is excruciating. All those tourists crossing the street without even bothering to look, like a bunch of morons.”

“They do look, actually,” Aziraphale chided him primly. “They just look the wrong way. It’s not their fault if most of the world drives on the left side of the road.”

“Most of the world should learn to read, then, since we got those nice signs painted all over the city just for them. Look left! Look right! With _arrows_, at that. How difficult could it possibly be?”

“You’re being positively beastly to those poor people,” Aziraphale declared. Crowley snorted, and Aziraphale let it go with a sigh. “Oh, well. As long as you don’t run any of them over.”

“It’s not even midday yet, give me time,” Crowley drawled, smirking widely at Aziraphale’s peeved huff.

The owner chose that moment to come back with their drinks. Aziraphale thanked her expansively, and the woman looked utterly charmed as she laid a tea set and a mug of coffee on the table. Crowley couldn’t hide a small grin. He found that quirk of Aziraphale’s charming as well, and there was some comfort in knowing that he wasn’t alone in that predicament.

“Would you like to order?” the woman asked, once everything was settled. Aziraphale beamed at her.

“Yes, please. Two full breakfasts, my dear, if it’s not too late.”

Crowley arched a brow. He hadn’t said a thing about greasy breakfast food, but Aziraphale hadn’t even bothered to check with a look if he was all right with it. The woman reassured Aziraphale that they served breakfast until two o’clock, then scribbled something down on her notebook and went away.

Aziraphale scoffed at Crowley’s inquisitive expression.

“Let me guess,” he said, not looking repentant in the slightest. “You’re the sort that doesn’t believe in breakfast, and you have nothing more than coffee in your body to keep you going since yesterday.”

“And spite. Don’t forget spite.”

Aziraphale didn’t look particularly impressed with his quip.

“That’s not healthy. You need to eat something, and since neither of us has had his breakfast yet, breakfast food will do.”

“Hard to discuss that kind of logic,” Crowley snickered, but didn’t protest. Not only he wasn’t all that opposed to munching on something, since the smell coming from the kitchen was reminding him pretty sharply that he did have a stomach, however little he thought about it, but he also had the distinctive impression that protesting wouldn’t do him any good. Aziraphale looked positively mulish on the subject, and Crowley mused that poking and prodding at him a little would be much more fun than actually having a full-blown discussion about something as trivial as eggs and bacon.

“A bit pushy on your part, don’t you think?” he asked instead, voice down to a purr, bracing his chin on his hand and smirking lazily at Aziraphale. “Ordering food for someone else without checking with them first. And a bit forward, too.”

He’d expected some kind of flustered, spluttering reply from Aziraphale. He hadn’t expected the violent blush spreading from Aziraphale’s neck up to his cheeks, bright and deep. His soft skin blazed like embers against the pale background of his light-blue shirt. Crowley stared in fascination, as Aziraphale fiddled with his glasses and avoided looking at him at all costs.

“Yes, well,” he grumbled. If Crowley had to take a wild guess, Aziraphale was embarrassed, and peeved at being embarrassed. “If you don’t actually want it, I can call Mrs. Robinson back and cancel your order. She won’t mind.”

Crowley tilted his head, squashing the sudden urge to reach for Aziraphale’s cheek to find out if his furiously-blushing skin was just as hot to the touch as it looked. He wondered how far under his clothes that blush went, and his fingertips itched with the need to loosen Aziraphale’s ridiculous tartan bowtie and see for himself.

“Hmm,” Crowley hummed, bottling everything up, like he’d bottled up the furious wank he’d had over Aziraphale’s strong hands and praising words two days before. “Nah. I could eat something, after all.”

Aziraphale threw him a withering glance, to which Crowley answered with a wide, happy grin. That seemed to work the trick. Aziraphale held the glower for an additional short moment, before deflating with a huff and pottering away with his tea set. Crowley merely watched, enthralled enough by Aziraphale’s delicate touch to grant him the time to bring his blush under control.

“I don’t know if anyone ever told you that, Mr. Crowley, but you’re a _menace_,” Aziraphale grumbled, stirring his milky tea without ever touching the ceramic rim of the cup with his spoon.

“They have,” Crowley said with a lazy grin, before being suddenly struck with a flash of genius, “and Mr. Crowley is way too formal. You can’t very well call me that in front of your family. We’re supposed to be an item, aren’t we? Mister is not exactly a tender pet name.” Crowley thought it over for a moment. “Unless you want to give your siblings a very peculiar impression of what our relationship might entitle.”

Aziraphale didn’t splutter his tea all over the table, but it was a close thing. Crowley hid his smirk behind his mug and sipped placidly at his coffee.

“I-I haven’t thought about that, but you’re right, of course,” Aziraphale stammered, obviously trying to get his bearings back where they belonged. “What should I call you? Your... your first name, perhaps?”

Crowley snorted.

“Anthony? No one ever calls me that. Crowley’s fine, just drop the mister.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale hummed, then chuckled, low and soft. “Your name’s Anthony, then. I’m relieved. Anathema only talks about you as Crowley, and I wasn’t sure whether that was your first name or your family name. I was worried about making some sort of social faux pas, you see. I’m glad I guessed right.”

Aziraphale looked inordinately pleased with himself for that outstanding piece of detective work, and Crowley felt something suspiciously close to fondness bloom in his chest.

His interest was quickly developing into a hopeless crush, he was well aware of it. He was also quite disinclined to be rejected again, so he’d decided that keeping a lid on it was the best solution. His treacherous heart, however, seemed to have other ideas on the matter, and his brain had always been a hapless doormat, when push came to shove.

Crowley cleared his throat, carefully choosing his tone. He was aiming for coolly detached, but he had an inkling he’d just landed short of hopeful.

“I could work with pet names, though.”

Aziraphale made something complicated with his face that Crowley had no hope in hell to be able to decipher.

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed, suddenly and inexplicably fascinated with his teapot. “Would... dear?... be appropriate enough?”

A wave of excitement mixed with dread hit Crowley full-force, like a gale. Oh, that was going to be very, very bad. He was a twit, and he had the same self-preservation instinct of people who hiked flat rock walls without safety gear. Or people who talked in theatres.

“Sure,” he pushed out, trying not to choke on it. “Sounds good. What should I call you?”

Aziraphale stared dubiously at him. Crowley hoped against hope that he didn’t look as flustered as he felt. He wasn’t all too sure about this business anymore.

_My dear Crowley._

He could hear Aziraphale’s voice ring in his mind like a silver bell, sweet and soft and sticky like molasses as he pictured Aziraphale skimming his hands up Crowley’s belly, thumbs catching on his navel and tracing the shape of his sternum, before covering his peaked nipples.

_Very bad_ didn’t even start to cover it. That was _abysmally_ bad. Crowley could feel his cock rise up to the challenge, and the last thing Crowley wanted was to challenge his cock. He knew he’d lose.

Aziraphale was still churning on his question, blessedly unaware of the filth going on in Technicolor in Crowley’s sex-starved mind.

“...dear?” Aziraphale eventually came up with.

Crowley snorted, trying to keep some cool, since his wits had merrily gone to town and were quite satisfied to be there.

“Do I look like an elderly spinster spending her retirement solving crimes in the country to you?”

Aziraphale snorted, quite inelegantly, and yet amiable in a way that made Crowley’s heart ache.

“It was quite all right for me, though,” he groused, but without bite. “And you _do_ read, then, from time to time.”

“I said I’m not much for books, not that I’m an illiterate swine,” Crowley shot back, a little peevishly. “I’m a journalist, of course I read. But even if I didn’t, there is this wonderful invention called telly, you know. There are movies in it. Sometimes even based on books.”

“The wonders of modern days,” Aziraphale tartly rebutted. It was Crowley’s time to snort.

“What should I call you, then?” he pressed on, sensing an advantage and unwilling to let go. “Sweetheart? Honey? Sugar? Pumpkin?”

“I’m not a lovesick teenager, Mr. Crowley,” Aziraphale haughtily replied, before tilting his head a fraction and correcting himself with a purring, “dear.”

_Oh, the bastard_, Crowley thought, absolutely delighted.

“Point taken,” he cheerfully conceded. “What do your friends call you? Az? Zira?”

It hadn’t seemed like much of a question to Crowley, but the light mood of their banter turned abruptly for the worst after that. Aziraphale’s harried pout disappeared so quickly that Crowley had to blink to make sure he wasn’t dreaming the sudden cloud that had darkened the man’s features.

“My friends call me Aziraphale,” he replied, in a clipped, sharp voice.

Crowley wasn’t sure what he’d done to put such a damper on their conversation, but he silently blessed the owner when she showed up with their food just in time to lighten up the mood.

“Two full breakfasts,” the woman cheerfully declared, landing two plates of rash and beans in front of them. “Toast’s on its way.”

Crowley sat there looking awkwardly at his plate, but the food had distracted Aziraphale enough to dispel that bout of sudden and inexplicable bad mood.

“Oh, this smells divine,” he cooed. The owner came back with their toasted bread just in time to hear the remark, and smiled toothily at Aziraphale as she placed the double rack on the table together with several butter sticks on a saucer.

“Enjoy your breakfast,” she said with a smile, leaving them to their own devices. Aziraphale spread a napkin on his lap and picked up his cutlery.

“I’m sure I will,” he grinned to himself, staring at his food with undisguised anticipation. Crowley couldn’t help but smile at how genuine Aziraphale’s delight was.

Crowley waved a hand in his general direction, waiting for his breakfast to cool down a bit. The smell was quite nice indeed, but he could see thin tendrils of steam coming off his sausage and wasn’t particularly looking forward to burning his tongue.

“By the way, what sort of name is Aziraphale?” he asked, unsure of what exactly had caused that abrupt mood swing but unwilling to let go.

Crowley swore to himself as Aziraphale stiffened once again, his playful delight almost completely gone. Crowley’s trice-damned stubbornness had hit again.

“It’s the name of an angel, if you must know,” Aziraphale answered, as though he was pushing by force the words out of his mouth. “A principality. He guarded the Eastern Gate of Eden.”

There was something really, really wrong in Aziraphale’s voice. Crowley couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but although his brain was screaming at him to drop it, he soldiered on. Better getting the matter out straight away than having to pick it up again at a later time and ruining another easy afternoon.

“A what?”

Aziraphale squirmed a little in his seat, avoiding Crowley’s gaze and staring unhappily at his food.

“A principality. A choir of angels.”

Crowley snapped his fingers, as the idea hit him.

“There you are. Angel.”

“Pardon?”

“Your pet name. What do you say about angel?”

Aziraphale’s face did again something complicated, before settling on a supercilious grimace.

“I say it’s preposterous.”

Crowley had to laugh at that, sharp and full of teeth.

“Good,” he drawled, “that’s exactly what I was going for.”

For a moment, Crowley thought he’d absolutely blown it. Aziraphale levelled a disbelieving glare at him, staring silently for some time. Then, as Crowley started to wonder whether he’d put his foot in his mouth and squirming under that glare was becoming a need impossible to overcome, Aziraphale’s face broke into a tentative smile, then a smirk, and then an honest-to-God chuckle.

“Very well, Mr. Cr-,” a beat, a frown, and then that smile again, “Crowley, dear. Angel it is. And now that that’s settled...”

“Yes, of course,” Crowley laughed. “Breakfast time.”

“Well, you don’t have much time left from your lunch break, I believe, and it would be a pity to let this lovely food grow cold,” Aziraphale reasoned. Crowley had an inkling that Aziraphale by now considered his breakfast a well-deserved reward for having soldiered through another painfully awkward conversation, and Crowley wasn’t enough of an heartless bastard to ruin it for him.

“As you say, angel,” he purred, laying a napkin on his lap and poking mistrustfully at his food. Aziraphale gifted him with a beaming smile and tucked in.

They ate in easy silence, dappled here and there by short flares of hushed conversation. Crowley barely managed to finish the meat and pick at some beans before feeling full to burst, and he ended up giving his tomatoes, mushrooms and toasted bread to Aziraphale. The gesture seemed to fluster Aziraphale to no end (which was simply ridiculous, since he’d had no compunction about stealing Crowley’s sushi the week before), but Crowley didn’t like to waste food, and once the initial awkwardness had been dispelled, Aziraphale had looked only too happy to go through Crowley’s portion as well.

“I didn’t think you’d enjoy greasy breakfast food so much, I must say,” Crowley pointed out, as Aziraphale buttered up the last slice of toast with painstaking precision.

The remark won him a frown and a suspicious look.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley answered, uncertain about what could’ve possibly been taken the wrong way in what he thought to be a fairly innocent observation. “Sushi and expensive wine and sake and high-quality tea... you look like the sort that would stick into his mouth only the most fancy stuff, ‘s all.”

Crowley hadn’t even finished his sentence that he was already kicking himself for making an even worse mess of the situation. Not only he’d merrily implied that Aziraphale was a pompous git, but now his brain was helpfully supplying ideas about what he could personally slot into Aziraphale’s mouth and he really didn’t need that kind of rubbish into his mind at the moment. Not when slinking off to wank the tension away wasn’t an option.

Aziraphale’s frown seemed to deepen for a moment, then he chuckled to himself and delicately rubbed off any excess of butter from the knife on his toast.

“Are you calling me conceited, _dear_?”

Crowley narrowed his eyes at Aziraphale’s tone. It sounded playful enough, but there was a wicked note ringing somewhere in it.

“Well. Yes,” Crowley replied, deciding to play along. “A little?”

Aziraphale laughed properly at that, then sank his teeth into his toast and munched leisurely on it. Only once he’d swallowed the morsel, prim and proper, he graced Crowley with an answer.

“I supposed I am. But I’m not the one systematically wearing sunglasses indoors. At night.”

Crowley snorted. That was way more familiar territory. He had this sort of banter with Anathema all the time.

“That’s called style, angel. Look it up.”

“I’ll have you know that I understand the concept just fine, _dear_,” Aziraphale snapped in return, viciously throwing Crowley’s pet name (because it _was_ Crowley’s now, it belonged to him, and Crowley would’ve fought for it tooth and nail) back at him. Oh, they’d have no problem looking like a couple in front of Aziraphale’s family, no trouble at all. Crowley didn’t know if that thought was more electrifying or terrifying. It was certainly amusing.

He lifted his hands in a pacifying gesture. He was starting to realise that riling Aziraphale up could be quite a lot of fun, but they didn’t have much time left before he had to go back to work, and Crowley didn’t want to end the day on a sour note.

“No offence was meant, angel,” he answered, in a placating tone. He liked the pet name, he decided. It felt good on his tongue.

Aziraphale eyed him a little superciliously for a moment longer, before primly turning his attention back to his breakfast.

“I know,” he said, sounding for all the world somewhat disappointed. Crowley wondered if he’d made another faux pas somewhere, and then realised with a start that Aziraphale probably _liked_ getting all riled up over nothing.

Crowley could work with that. He lived to tease.

“Oh, that was lovely,” Aziraphale sighed, dabbing at his mouth with his napkin before folding it tidily and setting it back on the table. “How long do we have?”

Crowley looked at his watch.

“Not very long,” he groused. “I really should go back to work.”

“Well, then.”

Aziraphale called for the owner, and insisted on paying.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Crowley,” he declared, at Crowley’s protests. “You paid last time, at the tea room.”

“Let me at least take care of the tip,” Crowley pleaded, and eventually Aziraphale relented.

The air was bracing, as they stepped out of the shop. Crowley was glad for his scarf, and Aziraphale looked like he could actually freeze to death in his waistcoat and pressed pants. It was almost November, for crying out loud.

“You going to work yourself?” Crowley asked, voice a bit muffled by the scarf he was winding around his neck to battle the seeping cold. It was almost half past midday, and Aziraphale’s shift started in a little over two hours.

“Hmm, I think so,” Aziraphale mused. “I could always do some research before my shift begins. I haven’t been quite as industrious as I’d like about my work, of late.”

“Your work?” Crowley repeated, a bit confused.

Aziraphale shrugged.

“A friend of mine who works at Oxford has found in one of their special collections some unpublished poems that he thinks could be attributed to Sappho, and since I like to dabble a little into academic writing from time to time, I’m working on a translation from the original Greek for future publication.”

Crowley quirked a brow at him.

“You can read Greek?”

“And Latin,” Aziraphale said, in a low and vaguely abashed voice. “But I need to cross-reference the use of a specific term in this specific period to an article written in French more than twenty years ago, and my French is rather embarrassing, I’m afraid. I’ve been putting off this particular bit of research for months. That was quite bad form on my part, but I couldn’t help it. French is really not my cup of tea.”

All right, that was a bit more education Crowley had expected from a librarian. He would’ve bet his snakeskin boots that Aziraphale had studied at some fancy university too, as his perfect Oxbridge accent seemed to suggest. He didn’t know if he felt more snarky about it or impressed. He guessed a little bit of both.

“You never heard of Google translate, I take?”

Aziraphale puffed in contemptuous indignation.

“Of course I have. Students use it all the time.”

“And?”

“And that’s a shameful shortcut that no self-respecting scholar would ever take into consideration.”

Crowley didn’t have all that experience with academia, but he had a few doubts about the sanctity of that statement. As much as holier-than-thou scholars liked to appear, he had an inkling that they could and would use a good shortcut every now and then, if it helped them along. He was, however, smart enough to keep that keen observation on human nature to himself.

“You need a lift?” he asked, instead. Aziraphale seemed surprised by the offer.

“A lift?”

“Yeah. I could drop you off at your library, if you like.”

“You’re awfully kind, my dear, but I wouldn’t dream of imposing. Traffic in London is bad as it is, you don’t need to go out of your way to take me to work. I have time.”

“It’s not an imposition, that library of yours is on the way to my workplace. ‘sides, you could spend your time in a much better way than standing on the Tube.”

Aziraphale regarded him with a little frown, clearly tempted, but not completely convinced about whether he was allowed to take him up on his offer or not.

“If you’re quite sure...”

“‘course ‘m sure. Come along, angel,” Crowley replied. Without waiting for an answer, he started off to the parking space he’d managed to find by a miraculous stroke of luck not two blocks away. He didn’t need to look to know that, after a moment of stupefied surprise, Aziraphale had rushed along.

Crowley took his phone from his pocket and tinkered a little with it, before handing it to Aziraphale.

“You know the address, I take?”

“Well, yes, of course...”

“Type it in.”

Aziraphale complied, and by the time he was done with it (with a lot of fiddling and ‘oh my goodness’s and Crowley having to reopen the app twice), they’d reached Crowley’s car.

Crowley couldn’t help but preen at Aziraphale’s wide-eyed stare. He could tell that Aziraphale was impressed, and he should very well be, because Crowley’s baby was pure, unadulterated beauty.

“Oh, my,” Aziraphale said, after a beat. “Is that your car, then?”

“It is,” Crowley confirmed, unlocking the doors with the remote. It clashed a little with the sleek old-fashioned exterior of his vintage car, but in Crowley’s opinion it also gave quite a dramatic flare to the act, and Crowley was a sucker for anything dramatic.

(Fine, maybe Anathema did have a point about the whole drama thing. That didn’t mean Crowley felt compelled in any way to let her know.)

Aziraphale cocked his head, a small frown drawing up on his forehead.

“It’s... very flash.”

All right, perhaps not _that_ impressed, after all.

“It’s a 1926 Bentley in perfect conditions,” Crowley answered, a little peevishly.

Aziraphale hummed.

“I do like a good vintage,” he murmured, clearly appreciative.

Crowley wasn’t sure whether he felt more mollified or ruffled by the remark.

“I take care of her myself,” he explained, a bit defensively. “That is, I do everything that doesn’t need a proper shop to be done. I work on her almost every week.”

Aziraphale hummed again, casting a look at him through his lashes.

“I’m sure you do.”

Crowley started, too taken aback to search for an answer. Was Aziraphale _flirting_ with him? It couldn’t be. Crowley remembered very well the way Aziraphale had recoiled (quite physically, too) at the idea of being Crowley’s pretended partner. Aziraphale flirting with him, of all things, was surely not on the menu. And the moment had gone so quickly that Crowley was starting to doubt he’d confused a simple teasing look for something else entirely. Aziraphale’s gaze now was expectant, without a trace of anything that could ever remotely resemble flirting, purposeful or not.

“Right,” Crowley grumbled, clearing his throat. “Doors are open. Hop in, angel.”

A little hesitantly, Aziraphale tried the handle. He gasped softly to himself when the door, in fact, gave in to his pull and swung open. Then he peeked inside.

He looked completely ridiculous.

“It’s not the thrice-damned Chamber of Secrets, angel,” Crowley grunted. “Just get in.”

Aziraphale frowned a moment, then wrinkled his nose.

“Oh. The wizard boy.”

“‘m sorry, I’ll choose a more pompous reference next time,” Crowley drawled, sliding in his seat with practiced ease and slotting the key in the ignition. “We’re losing daylight, angel. Get in.”

This time, Aziraphale complied, though not without a lot of huffing and puffing. He readjusted his seat, looked around, fiddled with his belt, squirmed on the expensive leather, looked behind, looked outside every window, and then, eventually, looked at Crowley.

“Shouldn’t we be going?” he had the courage to ask. Crowley snorted.

“I was waiting for you to settle down.”

“Oh. I see. Well, I’m as settled as I’ll ever be. You can go.”

“How nice of you,” Crowley chuckled, though he was already slotting into reverse and sliding out of the parking space.

Everything seemed to be going well until the exact moment Crowley slipped with his usual easy grace into traffic. Then, it all went to hell.

“WATCH OUT, WATCH OUT! THERE IS A PEDESTRIAN THERE!”

“So what? Pedestrians don’t own the street, you know.”

“That car is awfully close Crowley Crowley CROWLEY IT’S TOO CLOSE TOO CLOSE TOO CLOSE-“

“Nah, it’s a trick of the light. Relax, angel. I got this.”

“I hope you’re not thinking about overtaking that truck good grief Crowley it’s a truck it’s a BLESSED LORRY YOU DON’T OVERTAKE LORRIES CROWLEY THE LORRIES OVERTAKE YOU!“

“They can try. I’ll rip their fucking tyres with my teeth if I have to.”

“YOU CAN’T DO U-TURNS IN THE MIDDLE OF LONDON CROWLEY!”

“Of course I can, I just did!”

“SLOW DOWN FOR THE LOVE OF EVERYTHING HOLY SLOW DOWN!”

“If I slowed down any further we might as well walk, angel.”

“This is the day I die. Oh God, Oh God, I’m going to die.”

“And then Anathema says that _I_ am dramatic.”

By the time Crowley had pulled over by Aziraphale’s workplace, the man looked like he’d lost ten years of his life, and Crowley felt like he’d gained at least a handful of decibels.

“We’re here, Aziraphale,” Crowley helpfully offered, when Aziraphale, instead of taking his leave, stayed put and stared straight ahead with lips pressed so tightly together they looked almost as white as his cheeks. His complexion was usually quite pale, but Crowley had white sheets at home that were more colourful than his face, right then and there.

“Is everything alright?” Crowley tentatively asked, frowning a little. He motioned to brush Aziraphale’s hand, clamped down like a vice on his own knee.

The contact startled Aziraphale into motion. He snatched back his hand in a way that Crowley refused to allow to hurt, staring at him with wild eyes.

“I’m still alive,” Aziraphale whispered, looking as shell-shocked as a survivor from a deadly accident.

Crowley huffed. He was trying very hard not to take the whole thing personally, but Aziraphale was making it quite difficult.

“Of course you are. Do you really think I’d ever let anything happen to you?” Crowley snapped, without thinking.

His outburst was followed by an embarrassed silence. Crowley briefly felt Aziraphale’s eyes on him, but he wasn’t really that keen on returning the gaze. He wasn’t sure what he’d find in Aziraphale’s eyes, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“Right,” Aziraphale said, after a moment. “I’d better go.”

Crowley grumbled his assent, but then, since he was a sad fucker with no spine, called him back.

“Angel?”

Aziraphale, who was already pretty much out of his seat, slipped back in. He left the door open, though, and the cold air chilled Crowley to the bones.

“Something the matter?”

Crowley harrumphed, looking ahead and caressing the soft leather of the wheel with his palms.

“Forecasts say we should have a sunny weekend. Care for another walk in the park?” Crowley hesitated, and then added, feeling like he was opening up a little too much and needing to reel himself in: “We could talk a bit more about what we’re planning to say to your family. We haven’t been very good at working on it, so far.”

“Hmm. So we haven’t. Slacking a little, as they say.” Aziraphale regarded him with shrewd, bright eyes. The daze he’d got into after their ordeal in the London traffic was melting away, and now his gaze was clear. Even his cheeks were getting their usual, delicate pinkish shade back. “I’m working tomorrow, but I’m free on Sunday. I could go for a stroll in St. James’s, if that’s all right with you.”

Crowley nodded, feeling like something had been taken off his shoulders. It was just for their ruse, of course, but it was nice for once not to be labelled as the clingy one and kicked into a corner because normal people had a life, stuff to do, and did not simply sit around waiting to be summoned when required.

“Two o’clock?” Crowley attempted. They’d met one hour later the week before, but he wanted more time with Aziraphale, and he was starting to fear that no amount of time would ever be enough. One hour would have to do, though.

(It was getting worse, Crowley knew. It wasn’t the first time he saw it happen, but he didn’t get in so deep very often, and never, ever that fast.

It was like watching a car crash, horror mingling with absolute, terrifying impotence. Crowley didn’t know if he should fight it or just close his eyes and let it happen.

Either way, he knew it was going to hurt.)

Crowley breathed more easily when Aziraphale beamed at him. He didn’t seem too put out by the idea of meeting him again so soon. Crowley could work with that.

“Two o’clock, sounds wonderful,” Aziraphale said, smiling at him. “Mind how you go, now.”

“Sure thing, angel. Have fun with your research.”

Aziraphale, who was in the process of exiting his car again, stopped mid-way.

“No, I mean it,” he insisted. “I saw you driving. _Do_ mind how you go.”

Crowley snorted, waving him away, and if Aziraphale’s smile was a little wicked around the edges, well, Crowley wouldn’t hold it against him.

* * *

There was something lingering in the air, something not quite right. Crowley couldn’t put his finger on it, but it was there, dark and sticky and powerful in a subtle, unassuming kind of way.

(A little bit like Aziraphale, Crowley thought, almost in a daze.)

He was late clocking in, but he was out and about so often, collecting interviews and working on one piece or another, that no one really checked his comings and goings, as long as he did his job in timely fashion for their weekly issue. The piece he’d written about that odd fellow’s fetish for chalk giants was already on its way to print, and Crowley was left working through his e-mails in search for some breaking news he could use for the following week, or what passed for breaking news in a shitty tabloid such as theirs.

Crowley really hated his job, sometimes. He’d chosen it because it was easy, and easy had sounded plenty good after living with his uncle and cousins for more than a decade. But he wasn’t seventeen anymore, and he hadn’t been for a long time. Without even realising it, the easy job he’d taken to get enough money to live on his own and cut bridges with his shite family had become a routine gripping him every year a little tighter. It had been slow work; so atrociously, cleverly slow that he hadn’t noticed at first, but that grasp had been getting steadily harder to bear as the years passed by, and now that he was about to crash into the fourth decade of his life, Crowley was coming to realise that it was unhurriedly but surely choking him to death. A little down the road, five, ten years from now, whatever had made him Crowley would be gone, annihilated by the dragging routine of a job that he couldn’t leave because he had no qualifications nor hopes for a better position, and he’d wake up at fifty-five with a life he’d barely lived gone by in a blink. He’d be alone, with nothing but his car and his plants to attest that he _had_ loved something, _had_ found some solace and pleasure in a bleary existence at some point.

Crowley stared up at the ceiling, eyes lingering on the cracks and fissures in the dirty plaster. He wondered when everything had become so bleak, when simply enjoying a blow-job in the restroom of a busy club had turned out to be not enough to lighten his mood. When danger and excitement and the burst of human contact and pleasure and sex and the power that came with it had started to wear off, like a drug done so often that the only way to get a hit anymore was to ramp the dose up and up.

When anonymous sex had started to lose most of its appeal, he’d tried weed, which made him mellow and sleepy and took off the edge of life and everything that life entailed, at least for a little while. Then he’d tried cocaine, which he hated, since it fine-tuned his already oversensitive nerves into a knot of painful, neurotic awareness that turned him into a jittery, panicky mess, and he’d avoided it ever since. Anything else he’d been too scared to try, even to impress the casual shag of the night. When life became too hard to bear, he simply turned back to his favourite poison, and drank himself into oblivion. Alcohol was cheap and easy to find, and Crowley knew what to expect.

(He also knew not to abuse it, since his uncle had set a rather spectacular example in that matter. Crowley supposed he ought to be grateful to him at least for that, if not for the cool indifference and general neglect.)

Weed, however, he did smoke, from time to time. It was just a hassle to get, and Crowley didn’t particularly fancy the idea of calling Dagon to ask for some, not even to dull the unnerving weariness of a job that was grinding him down to nothing and a life devoid of any possible meaning.

Crowley scrubbed his face, wondering how exactly the day had turned so gloomy. He’d had such a nice time with Aziraphale, and he was going to have some more embarrassingly soon, because he had the same level of self-control of a five-year-old and was completely incapable of resisting his baser needs. There was something about Aziraphale that Crowley craved, and he didn’t know what it was exactly, just that it was there and it kept pulling at him with teeth as sharp as needles. Perhaps because Aziraphale was new, and bright, and different, and gentle, with the kind of softness that made Crowley’s every bone ache. Perhaps because Crowley hadn’t been so interested in someone in years, and anything, even heartache, was better than the dull drag of days chasing one another in a senseless spin, like the Dodo’s Caucus Run.

Whatever it was, Crowley knew he ought to tread lightly, but he’d never learnt how, and now it was too late. He almost considered asking Anathema for advice, but he wasn’t in such bad shape that he needed help from a girl almost twenty years his junior. He was supposed to be her mentor, not the other way around. And she hadn’t come to work that week, busy as she was with her degree and with building a life that was actually worth living, with a job that she didn’t actively hate. She was way smarter than Crowley had ever been. She’d get what she wanted and she wouldn’t settle for anything less. Crowley wasn’t proud to say that he envied her at times, with a desperate, simmering anger that he did his best to strangle into submission but that was always there, growling softly in the treacherous deep waters of the weakest, darkest corners of his mind.

It was with a painful, unpleasant start that Crowley realised that, aside Anathema, he didn’t actually have anyone to talk to. He’d lost people and friends along the way like one might shed clothes, growing apart, losing interest, turning from the cool one into the odd one out, dragging on the only life he’d ever known until it came to be so worn-out at the edges that wearing it had become more difficult than soothing. He was a gay man fast approaching his forties with a nineteen-year-old intern as his only friend and no one that would notice or care if he was to die of a stroke in the next five minutes.

It wasn’t just about a shitty job and a life barely lived. Crowley was alone. And, even worse, he was _lonely_.

He’d wanted a reason for his sudden, inexplicable interest in Aziraphale. Now he had it. Crowley was a sad, ageing fucker who’d simply grabbed the first thing in range and now refused to let go. He was so horribly, desperately lonely that he would agree to anything just to feel a little warmer, a little less isolated in the cold world outside. He would crawl and beg for scrapes, if scrapes were all he could get. But just as Crowley had never learnt to tread lightly, he’d also never learnt to want a little less, need a little less, and once again it was too late now.

Crowley sighed, spun on his chair, and fortified himself to get back to work. A soft smile and softer blue eyes shimmered in his mind like flickering lights, bright and lovely and gone in a blink.

Too late, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must confess: this story has completely got away from me. While I’m still sticking to the original outline, character-wise, everything else has been growing out of my control for quite some time now, and I’ve decided that a few updates were long due.
> 
> First of all: I’ve managed to get ahead a little with my writing, and I’ve realized that my 20-chapter prediction is going to be fairly accurate, if not overly optimistic. In other words, 20 chapters might actually be the lower limit, but I’ve decided to use that number as a probable final chapters count.
> 
> Secondly, since this story is most likely going to topple over the 100k threshold and Aziraphale and Crowley will take their sweet time to get to any kind of resolution whatsoever, I’ve decided that adding a “slow burn” tag was only fair. I hope you all are into it, because it’s going to be a looong ride!
> 
> And thirdly, because fair is fair, I’ve finally caved and added a “light d/s” tag as well. I’ve struggled quite a bit with that particular decision, since I didn’t want the story to get away from me to the point that the original thread would be buried under all the extra stuff I’ve been planning to add, but I’ve realised that with the way I’ve written Crowley and Aziraphale so far, there was exactly where the whole thing was going, whether I wanted it or not. Which I do, by the way. My only concern was forcing a substantial alteration on the natural flow of the story, but I think I’ve managed to find my way around it, so here we are. I hope this won’t ruin the story for any of you, but if you decide that it’s not really your cup of tea anymore, I apologise. The characters have started to make their own decisions, and I’ve been shoved into the back seat without so much as a how do you do.
> 
> To everyone reading my other GO fic: I haven’t forgotten about it, I swear! I just got completely swept into this story, and I’ve been writing it like crazy for the past month or so. I plan on getting back to my other fic soon, and I thank all who have left those lovely comments for their patience. The next chapter is coming! And that story, at least, should remain kink-free. (Well, reasonably so.)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there, lovely people!  
I have a couple of pretty hectic days ahead of me, so I’ve decided to update early (yet again) to avoid missing my deadline. Next update should be on the 16th of January, in two weeks’ time–and who knows, maybe I’ll even manage to stick to my schedule for a change.  
I hope you’ll like this chapter as much as I’ve enjoyed writing it, and I wish you all a bonkers new year <3

Despite the forecasts swearing left and right that the weekend would be a sunny one, Sunday came with an overabundance of cloudy skies and damp, frigid winds. Crowley decided that the sudden rubbish weather was a slight done to him personally by a cruel god and acted accordingly. He ignored whatever spectacular backtrack forecasts had been doing during the morning and donned the light coat and snakeskin boots he’d planned to wear when the weather had still made sense, haughtily disregarding the idea of taking an umbrella for a walk in the park. No god would be so cruel to ruin his afternoon with Aziraphale. He was in a foul mood, however, and did his best to work it out by shouting at his plants. It wouldn’t do to show Aziraphale his worst side, not now, and hopefully not ever. He fussed over his hair and tried to get back into a more pleasant state of mind, though he didn’t succeeded in the latter until he saw Aziraphale standing as usual in front of the golden gates, looking dreamily up at the sky while tapping the iron tip of his huge tartan umbrella against the pavestones.

The miserable weather wasn’t enough to deter either tourists or locals, and the square was just as busy as the Sunday before. Crowley picked his way through the crowd, sure that Aziraphale wouldn’t spot him until he was practically on him, but the man wasn’t as enthralled by the overcast sky as Crowley had thought. He’d barely stepped around the Victoria Memorial when he realised that Aziraphale was looking straight at him, hands idly resting on the thick handle of his umbrella and a small delicate smile on his lips. Crowley refused to acknowledge that the smile had spurred him on like a veritable cattle prod, and he was jogging across the road with barely enough wherewithal left to check for upcoming traffic.

(Crowley could think of very few things less disgraceful and darkly ironic than him being rolled over by a car, but at that precise moment he couldn’t have cared less.)

“Hello, my dear,” Aziraphale greeted him, as soon as Crowley was in range. The soft voice and the endearment did something to him that Crowley wasn’t particularly eager to investigate, distracting him enough that the pet name slipped out of his mouth before he could keep himself in check.

“Hello, angel.”

Aziraphale’s face seemed to freeze for a moment, making Crowley wonder whether it’d be perhaps better to turn the sweet talk down a little, but then the small frown on the man’s forehead smoothed out and the smile was back.

“Well,” Aziraphale said, voice warm and low, “Shall we?”

Crowley mumbled something he hoped could be interpreted as affirmative and followed Aziraphale through the golden gates. St. James’s was busy as usual, but Crowley found that he didn’t mind the crowd all that much. There was something oddly soothing in walking with Aziraphale through the park, chattering inanely about their day and avoiding the steady rush of people. Between the cream-coloured woollen coat, the tartan scarf and the fedora, Aziraphale looked like a cut-out from a 1940 magazine, and the iron tip of his umbrella ticked on the sidewalk at every step like a walking stick in the hand of some late-Victorian nobleman out on a stroll.

Half an hour later, Crowley knew all he hoped there was to know about some Lord Tennyson, whose complete works and relative literary criticisms had been delivered to the university library on Friday and Aziraphale had spent the best part of his Saturday cataloguing, and his foul mood had considerably improved. Even the cold that threatened to seep through his light coat at every gust of wintry wind had been pushed aside.

They found a bench, eventually, and sat side by side to gaze at the ducks idly floating by. Crowley wasn’t surprised to find out that Aziraphale had brought some bread, and watched him throw soft little morsels into the lake with a bit of dark glee as a fleet of ducks fought with murderous intent over them. Aziraphale thought them adorable.

“Would you like to try, Crowley?” the man asked, handing him the little brown bag.

Crowley shook his head.

“I’ve already eaten today, angel, but thank you for asking.”

Aziraphale huffed.

“Really, my dear?”

Crowley smirked at the endearment, and got a scoff for his trouble.

Aziraphale chattered a little about his research as he emptied the bag, then looked for a bin. There were none in sight, so he crunched the paper into a little ball and stuck it into his pocket.

“You’ll get crumbles in there,” Crowley pointed out, but Aziraphale merely shrugged.

“I’m not going to stoop so low as to litter just because the City of Westminster has decided that matters such as environmental concerns and public health and safety are not really that crucial after all.”

“Never thought you would,” Crowley answered with a grin. “What would your students think of you?”

“They’re not _my_ student, you know,” Aziraphale pointed out, gaze fixed on the ducks floating aimlessly near the shore. “I’m a librarian, not a professor.”

Crowley was so attuned to Aziraphale’s moods by now that he knew in a heartbeat they were inching close to dangerous territory. It was a warning to tread gently, of course, but also a sign that he was about to see some parts of Aziraphale that were usually kept very close to his chest. To Crowley’s surprise, he found the thought to be a delightful one, and he had come to await with actual excitement these awkward little turns in their conversations. He wanted to know, wanted to see. And if a part of him hoped every single time that he’d discover something that would finally cut him loose, dissipating that hopeless crush that kept growing and growing like a strangler fig, a much bigger chunk just craved the thrill of seeing Aziraphale’s true self, of getting closer to him, so close that it would be impossible to set them apart.

(It was no surprise to anyone, even less to Crowley, that his sensible side was actually quite small and sad and lonely, aside from the single ounce of survival instinct it was provided with, and it was easily overpowered by his dumber, more reckless self, that had never had a self-preservation impulse in thirty-eight years and would probably not even know what one looked like.)

Crowley tilted his head, considering his next words carefully.

“Would you like to be?”

Aziraphale took a long, long time to answer. When he did, his face was carefully blank, and his gaze lost upon the flat surface of the lake, far enough that not even the ducks disturbed the mirror-like stillness.

“No, I wouldn’t. I like what I do. I like... I like what I am.”

There was something off about that answer, and Crowley pondered whether he ought to address it. It wasn’t that Aziraphale was purposely lying; more like he was holding something back. Crowley eventually decided to let go. He _was_ getting good at reading Aziraphale, and he was slowly but surely acquiring a knack for knowing when pressing would get him results and when it would get him only grief. He sensed that this time the latter would be more likely, and the afternoon was just too beautiful to be spoiled.

“Hmm,” Crowley hummed, stretching his limbs luxuriously on the bench. The shift seemed to catch some of Aziraphale’s attention, and Crowley allowed a half-smirk to ghost over his lips. “So, do librarians in tartan go to clubs? Or are clubs way too vulgar for their refined tastes?”

Aziraphale regarded him with a frown, clearly confused by the unexpected turn in their conversation.

“Clubs?”

“Oh, I see. They are strange establishments where there is no food, only loud music, poor lighting and lots of alcohol. Oh, and people, usually getting up to all kinds of debauchery all night long. That debased sort of stuff.”

Aziraphale glowered at him, and Crowley was hard-pressed to hide his smirk.

“I know what a club is.”

“But I guess it would be out of the question to tell your family we met there.”

“What?”

“For the wedding.”

“I see. Well, most assu-- wait a moment, what do you mean by _out of the question_?”

Crowley shrugged, lazily looking at the ducks. He had an elbow hooked over the back of the bench, and was sprawled so loosely on the seat that he was one muscle-twitch away from slipping right onto the ground.

“Well, it doesn’t seem like your sort of scene, ‘s all.”

That seemed to get Aziraphale truly going. Crowley wondered vaguely if he’d stuck his foot in his mouth again.

“And what would you know about my ‘scene’? I’ve been to clubs before, you know,” Aziraphale thundered, cheeks blushing pink over his scarf and eyes blazing. Then, he seemed to deflate, looking away with a sigh. “But you’re right, it’s been a while. Perhaps I should start again.” A nervous little smile twitched on his lips. “Put myself out there, as they say.”

That twitch was enough to remind Crowley of the rather unflattering theories he’d had about Aziraphale before they met. (When had that been? Years, decades before? It felt like an unquantifiable amount of time, and Crowley was startled by the realisation that he’d known Aziraphale for less than two weeks.)

_The bitten one._

Crowley had been right, after all. And he was a bloody twit who never, ever learnt. It’d been obvious from the start, what with the way Aziraphale had recoiled at the idea of being roped up into a relationship, even a fake one, and although Crowley had known, had known from the very beginning, he’d conveniently forgotten, too wrapped up in his little fantasy about that perfect imaginary boyfriend of his to realise that no matter what negligible ogling Crowley managed to get here and there, Aziraphale was probably in no way interested or amenable to get into anything resembling a relationship. The best Crowley could hope for was a quick shag, and a whole lot of embarrassment and heartbreak when he got clingy straight after, like the street dog that you petted once on the head and followed you home.

He was always so bloody stupid. He’d said it, he’d vowed it to himself that he would never, ever fall again for the bitten one, after the last time, and there he was. The same poor bastard making the same stupid mistakes.

He noticed that Aziraphale was casting him confused little glances, probably waiting for an answer. Crowley rummaged in his brain to find the lost thread of the conversation, and remembered that Aziraphale was talking about resuming his clubbing days, finding someone in the crowd that would put their filthy paws all over him and take him home.

Oh, hell. Not on his watch.

Crowley was too much of a moron to give himself such a clean, neat way out–ripping off the Band-Aid, as the Americans said. No. He would see this thing to its painful, agonizing end. He was a moron, but quitting wasn’t in his vocabulary.

“I don’t see how going clubbing two weeks before the wedding would help with your situation,” he answered, trying and failing to keep his voice cool instead of harsh and almost angry. He hadn’t done a particularly good job of it, from the hurt look he got from Aziraphale.

“Of course, you’re right. Now’s not the time.” There was a stiffness to Aziraphale’s voice, a distance as dry and cold as a frozen wasteland, as he clutched at his umbrella and looked up at the overcast sky. “Clubs are out, then. Any other ideas?”

Crowley had none, and he didn’t trust his stupid mouth not to make the situation even worse. He followed Aziraphale’s gaze, taking in the grey clouds hanging heavy over their heads.

“I don’t think you’d like to be one of the people I interview for work,” Crowley tentatively said, after a long pause. “And I’m a bit too old to be one of your customers.”

“They’re students, not customers,” Aziraphale automatically corrected him, and the mood softened as he huffed a little. “And don’t be silly, of course you aren’t. You wouldn’t be the first to get a degree in his... thirties? My, I just realised that I have no idea how old you are. Or I shouldn’t ask?”

The cold in Aziraphale’s eyes was now well and truly gone, replaced once again by that mischievous spark that Crowley was getting embarrassingly fond of.

Crowley chuckled, smiling at the ducks as he relaxed in his slouch. He hadn’t even realised how tense he’d got.

And there was something else, something he’d never said to anyone, not even to Anathema, glowing bright and warm and tender at Aziraphale’s words. Crowley grabbed it mercilessly by the neck and strangled it back into submission. He could get his heart broken, his dignity stomped over, but he would never let anyone else see _that_. His little, hopeless pipedream. That was his and his only.

“I’m thirty-eight,” he said instead, ruthlessly dragging them into well-trod ground. “By a thread, really, but you got it right.”

“Forty-two.” Aziraphale laughed. “What a silly thing not to know about each other.”

“Not silly at all. It’s not like we’ve been hanging out for a long time. I still don’t know how many siblings you have, for example.”

(Crowley asked out of curiosity, really, not because he was calculating his odds in case everything went pear-shaped and he had to hold his own against Aziraphale’s entire family in some sort of bizarre Battle Royale.)

Aziraphale’s smile dimmed a little, taken over by a slightly puzzled frown.

“Yes, of course. How silly of me, I completely forgot about it. I kind of assumed I’d already gone through that, you see, but with everything we’ve been talking about I guessed that the most basic information has slipped through the cracks.” Aziraphale tapped his umbrella against the ground, humming to himself as he made order into his mind. “Let’s see. There is Metatron, the oldest one. Should be about fifty by now... my, I forgot that too, how horrible of me. I’ll have to ask Michael. She’ll know.”

“Alright, Metatron,” Crowley prodded gently. He wondered what kind of name _that_ was, but he was giving up on making sense of Aziraphale’s wacky family. And he thought that Aziraphale’s name was odd. “Then...?”

“Then there’s Sandalphon. Gabriel. He should be forty-five, if I recall correctly. Then I came up. Michael is the youngest, she’s about your age.”

Crowley had no idea how life with four siblings would be like. He was an only child, though he did grow up with siblings of a sort. (That was how he was supposed to view his cousins, anyway. He never had. They never had either.) Given his history, he could perhaps imagine, but he hoped for his sake that Aziraphale’s experience had been more pleasant than his own. Somehow, he doubted that.

“What about your parents?” Crowley asked, in an attempt to chase the memories of Hastur and Ligur away.

Aziraphale looked even more uncomfortable than before.

“Father died when I was young. An ictus. Mother is... busy.”

That was an odd way to describe one’s parent. Crowley sensed that he was sailing again into dangerous waters, and once more let it go.

“So, not in a club, and not at work,” he recounted, bringing the conversation back to the previous topic. “What about the park? The dog I don’t have fell in love with the dog you don’t have and they played match-makers.” He thought about it for a bit, then added: “Wait, do _you_ have a dog?”

“No dog,” Aziraphale answered with narrowed eyes, “and I’m pretty sure that’s the plot of a children cinematic show.”

Crowley shrugged.

“I was a kid in the early eighties, you can’t blame me for trying.”

“This is not _trying_.”

“What about the truth, then?” Crowley asked with a smirk. “Our barely legal mutual acquaintance hooked us up.”

“Oh, _please_.”

“Pimped me out?”

Aziraphale glared at him.

“Now you’re doing this on purpose.”

Crowley’s grin doubled in size.

“Well, do you have a better idea?” he drawled, resuming his sprawl. The cold hard wood was digging quite painfully into his tailbone, but he’d be damned if he’d let that deter him from looking delectable. He had an image to uphold, and Aziraphale was quite abysmal at concealing the little looks he seemed powerless to stop himself from throwing his way now and again. Crowley’s spread legs were about as subtle as a punch in the face, but he wasn’t one to spit in the face of results.

“I’m thinking.”

“You got any friends with small kids? They could’ve hired me as a nanny and that’s how we met.”

Aziraphale huffed.

“If you’re not going to take this seriously...”

“I’m serious, I’m very serious!” Crowley protested. “Why not? I don’t particularly like children, but they can’t be too difficult to deal with, right?”

Aziraphale shot him a disbelieving look.

“You have absolutely no idea,” he sighed, as the realisation dawned on him.

Crowley shrugged.

“Well, do you?”

“Not quite,” Aziraphale admitted, “aside from the fact that I like them better out of my library. Those university days are an absolute _nightmare_, I’m telling you.”

A very vivid image of Aziraphale fretting over his books while a bunch of kids plastered their grubby hands all over them came unbidden to Crowley’s mind, dragging a low chuckle from his throat.

“Well then, I guess anything with kids is out of the question,” he conceded, as Aziraphale eyed him rather suspiciously.

They thought it over for a while, listening to the chattering of the people nearby and the quacking of the ducks. It was peaceful, in a way. Aziraphale had left his glasses at home for the day, and Crowley found himself more taken with the soft lines of his profile than the birds. There were crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes and lines from his nose to his mouth, but his forehead was surprisingly smooth and his chin round. Between the blond curls slipping out of his fedora, the pointed nose and the blue eyes, Aziraphale was actually far more handsome than Crowley had thought at first. It was a strange sort of epiphany to have, as though the more time Crowley spent in his company, the more attractive Aziraphale became. It’d never really happened to Crowley before, since the people he kept around (for however short a time) tended to stay more or less as attractive as they’d been when Crowley had met them. It was odd, in Crowley’s opinion. And bad form, too, shuffling things around just when one had finally got used to them.

Then, Aziraphale shifted, and Crowley turned quickly back to the lake. With the food gone, the bloody ducks didn’t seem to give a toss about their presence, so Crowley ignored them in turn in favour of the swans.

“Uhm,” Aziraphale started, fidgeting a little. “What about the coffee shop?”

“Coffee shop?”

“Yes, the one where we first met. I go there often, and it’s close to your workplace, Anathema told me. We could’ve met there.”

Crowley could see himself spontaneously going into a student waterhole, of all things, with the same ease with which he would paint fake moustache on his face and do magic tricks for a bunch of spoiled kids, but he didn’t have the heart to tell that to Aziraphale. He looked unnerved enough already, and it wasn’t like Crowley had any better ideas.

“Alright, I’ll bite. Coffee shop. What then?”

That, for some reason, seemed to fluster Aziraphale even more.

“Er. I thought-I thought perhaps you could’ve come up to me. Chatted a little about, about something. The coffee. The weather.”

“The weather,” Crowley repeated, a little incredulously. There was a suspicious colouring on Aziraphale’s cheeks, and Crowley looked at him from over the rim of his sunglasses to check. Yes. He was definitely blushing.

“Well, what else could two perfect strangers have to talk about?” Aziraphale protested. “Politics? Cameron’s cock-ups and whatnots?”

Crowley snorted, and Aziraphale rewarded him with a glare. He was definitely blushing now, and he looked downright furious about it.

“Cameron? Angel, when was the last time you picked up a paper, or turned on the news?”

Aziraphale blinked at him.

“Why? Is he gone?”

Crowley thought about bringing up the fact that their entire foreign policy was gone, precisely down the loo, but that wasn’t exactly the moment for a political debate. Especially since Aziraphale seemed to have a hazy notion at best of what was going on outside his library.

“Best leave politics out of it, angel. Not a good ice-breaker anyway.”

“Yes, religion and politics, isn’t that the way the saying goes?”

“And money.”

Aziraphale’s mouth quirked up a little at that.

“Doesn’t that go with the first two?”

Crowley’s laugh scared the ducks away, while Aziraphale looked extremely pleased with himself.

“Good one, angel. Yes, I guess it does.” Crowley scratched the back of his neck, feeling for a moment a little uncomfortable. “So, we are both in this coffee shop, and I chat you up. Is that what you were thinking about?”

Crowley could definitely do that. Coffee shops weren’t exactly his favourite hunting grounds, but he had chatted up his fair share of strangers throughout the years.

Aziraphale’s interesting blush was still firmly planted on his cheeks.

“Well, I guess... I guess you could say that. ‘Chat me up’. Yes.”

“Perhaps I told you that your eyes are like sapphires sparkling so bright,” Crowley purred, leaning a little towards him. Aziraphale levelled him a frown.

“Did you get that from another film?”

Crowley shrugged.

“Maybe?”

Aziraphale huffed.

“I think we’d do well not to get too much into details. It’s better that way.”

Crowley pouted a little, but Aziraphale was right. Although Crowley wasn’t a particularly accomplished liar, he’d watched enough telly to know that half-truths made for the best lies. Details had to be remembered, and the fewer they had wandering around, the better. Simple and believable made for the best plan.

“Alright, alright. Coffee shop. A dark and stormy night?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

“You’re so unnecessarily dramatic. An early evening after work will do.”

“You sound like Anathema,” Crowley grumbled. “Fine.”

“She’s a bright young woman, you know,” Aziraphale chided him. “And she’s very fond of you.”

“Can’t speak for her taste in people, but yeah, I know,” Crowley chuckled.

Aziraphale didn’t laugh.

“I can,” he said instead, low and firm, and Crowley was taken aback by the man’s tone. It was just a quip. Nothing to be taken so seriously.

He was about to say something to lighten the mood, when a drop fell right on the top of his head. Crowley looked up at the grey, heavy sky. Another drop fell onto his nose, then his cheek, his forehead, and soon rain was battering at him like sticks on a drum.

“Shit,” Crowley hissed, trying to protect his hair from the assault. Soaked through wasn’t a good look on him. He was too tall and thin to rock the underwear model wet look. With dripping clothes glued to his skin, he looked at best like a drowned rat. That was _not_ how his afternoon with Aziraphale was supposed to go.

Crowley was too busy berating himself for refusing to bring an umbrella, moron that he was, to pay any attention to what was going on at his side. He was therefore caught entirely by surprise when something whooshed open nearby, and then the rain was no longer battering his poor head.

“Here,” Aziraphale said gently, shuffling nearer. “We can share.”

Crowley did his best to keep very, very still. Suddenly, there was a warm, firm thigh pressing against his, and they were so close that he could feel Aziraphale’s elbow brushing gently against his arm. They were so close that Crowley could _smell_ him, for crying out loud, the scent of his cologne and something else, something old and dusty like a leather-bound book.

Crowley risked a look from the corner of his eye. Aziraphale was quiet, looking a little uneasy at the sudden nearness. He was staring at the ducks, which seemed completely nonplussed by the rain that was pattering upon the rippling surface of the lake. People around them were either opening their umbrellas or running for cover. The other benches were empty, the battering rain loud enough to silence the rest of the world. Crowley’s lower legs were getting soaked, but moving away from Aziraphale was unthinkable.

“Perhaps,” Aziraphale started, then cleared his throat, and then tried again, “Perhaps we should find a place to go. Somewhere warm. I’m afraid this rain is making quite a mess of my poor shoes.”

Crowley wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about losing the firm press of Aziraphale’s thigh against his own, but he also didn’t want Aziraphale to catch a cold because he was a greedy bastard. Beside, the wood of the bench was slowly soaking up the rain, and it was going to become very uncomfortable very soon.

“Sure,” he agreed, trying to shake himself out of his stupor. “There should be a café close by. We could try that out, though probably half the park has run there already for cover.”

“Sounds like a lovely idea,” Aziraphale answered, getting up on his feet. Crowley followed a little awkwardly, trying to arrange his too-long limbs into the somewhat restrained space he had available at Aziraphale’s side. He ended up walking hunched over with his hands into his pockets, trying to battle the seeping cold and to keep Aziraphale’s pace without bumping into him or head-butting his umbrella. His snakeskin boots made a horrible squelching sound at every step, and Crowley winced at the damage. He’d had them for a while, but they were horribly expensive and he wasn’t sure he could afford another pair right now. He had other shoes, of course, but those boots were his favourite.

Neither of them said anything, as they slowly made their way down the path and looked for the coffee shop. Aziraphale spotted it first, probably cued in by the trail of people running towards its doors for cover, and soon they were squeezed into a busy, crowded space with way too much humanity pressed together to be comfortable under any definition of the word. But it was reasonably dry and warm, and Crowley was too wet and miserable to complain about the noise. Aziraphale, on the other hand, seemed about as happy about the circumstances as he’d be sticking a hand into a radiator.

“Everything alright?” Crowley asked, ducking his head to be heard without shouting. Aziraphale hummed under his breath, attention focused on the crowded floor.

“Lots of people in here,” he said in lieu of an answer, as though that was all the information Crowley needed to make an educated guess. “But there is an empty table. You go take a seat, dear, before that family spots it. They look on the prowl.”

Crowley had to laugh at that.

“Stealing places around the fire from women and children, now? My, my, angel. That’s not very nice of you.”

“I’ll have you know that I’m _very_ nice,” Aziraphale huffed back, staring him down with a haughty glare. “But those two look like they’ve barely entered legal age for drinking and the baby is warm and comfortable in its buggy. We need a seat more than they do, and _I_ need a warm cup of tea if I am to stay here until it stops raining. So please, be a dear and get the bloody table. I’ll bring you a coffee. I know what you like.”

Crowley didn’t know whether he should be focusing on Aziraphale’s tirade (which was frankly hilarious), the swearing (which was a first), or the fact that Aziraphale remembered how Crowley liked his coffee (not that it was particularly difficult to remember, being brewed coffee with no milk and no sugar, but still). Eventually, Crowley decided that the best way to go was not to argue with the harried man wielding a huge umbrella, and dipped his head in agreement.

“Whatever you say, angel,” he chuckled, smirking widely to himself at Aziraphale’s withering look before making his way to the empty table. The couple with the baby didn’t look particularly pleased as he took a seat, but soon they were pushing their buggy somewhere else.

The din in the crowded shop was deafening, but it was warm enough, if not exactly comfortable. Crowley took off his scarf and his damp coat and sprawled his long limbs all over the faux-leather sofa, taking in his surroundings. There was a small family with two children and a dog two tables from him, and the kids were making a racket. No one seemed to mind. Two elderly ladies were having tea with scones on his right, and a small group of school kids in their uniforms were watching something on a smartphone giggling to themselves.

Although Crowley didn’t precisely like crowds, he liked watching people. It came with the job, he supposed. The teeming floor served well enough to keep him busy until Aziraphale found him. He had a full tray in his hands, laden with coffee, a tea set and a slice of cake.

“I’m sorry it took me so long,” he apologised in a vexed voice, “the queue was never-ending. Simply unbearable. And the service could really use some improvement.”

“Look on the bright side, angel,” Crowley chuckled back, as Aziraphale fussily emptied his tray on their hard-won table, “that couple seemed properly pissed at having their table stolen from under their nose.”

“It wasn’t _their_ table, it was _a_ table, and perhaps if they’d left their screaming spawn at home they’d have been fast enough to get a place,” Aziraphale snapped back, positively vicious. Crowley arched a brow, trying and failing to keep the amusement off his face, and after a long moment Aziraphale sighed and looked sheepishly up at him. “I apologise. I’m not very good with cramped, crowded spaces. And the _noise_... good gracious, the _noise_.”

“Aren’t you full of surprises,” Crowley chuckled, wrapping his hands around his mug to warm up his palms. Aziraphale was gracefully shedding his coat, and the sight was way more distracting than it had any rights to be. “My, my, not so angelic after all, are you?”

Aziraphale’s face fell a little, and Crowley could’ve kicked himself for it.

“I guess I’m not,” he said, sitting down on the padded chair and hanging his fedora on the high back. His cotton-tuft curls looked a little flattened upon his head, but they shone as bright as anything. “Well. I hope the weather will get better soon. I’d hate to think I pushed those poor people into heavy rain because of my selfishness.”

Aziraphale seemed positively crestfallen at the idea. It was a look that had no business being on his face. Impulsively, Crowley reached out, laying his hand over Aziraphale’s.

“Hey. ‘s ok. I’m sure they’ll survive. And you don’t have to bend backwards for every stranger you meet. You can be a little selfish and look out for yourself, from time to time.”

Aziraphale didn’t look particularly convinced, but his face did brighten up a little. Crowley realised that his palm was still pressed against Aziraphale’s hand, and that Aziraphale hadn’t taken it away. Aziraphale’s skin was gloriously soft, and he felt warm under Crowley’s hand, solid and blissfully alive. Deciding not to push his luck, Crowley withdrew, albeit slowly.

They chattered a bit over their drinks, easy and more relaxed as they got used to the surrounding chaos. Aziraphale’s mood had settled considerably by the time he’d finished his chocolate cake, and by the end he was laughing quite freely with Crowley about some story or other of general idiocy at the office. There was something in his smile that made Crowley squirm like a worm on a hook, some sort of irresistible pull that Crowley wasn’t too sure he was comfortable with. But it was what it was, he supposed. What he knew, was that he wanted to touch Aziraphale again–no, that he _craved_ it, with a furious hunger. He kept himself in check as the afternoon wasted by, until the rain finally stopped.

“I guess we should take the chance to try and get home,” Aziraphale said, without much enthusiasm. They hadn’t been exactly thrilled about the café at the beginning, but they had carved a little place for themselves at their corner table and were reluctant to leave it. Besides, quite a few people had left the nest during the occasional easing of the rain through the afternoon, and now it was almost quiet.

Crowley wasn’t particularly eager to go as well, but he couldn’t hold Aziraphale hostage in there for the rest of the night. No matter how much he wanted to.

“Let’s go, angel,” Crowley said, getting up on his feet. “I’ll drive you home.” Aziraphale didn’t look wildly enthusiastic about that either, and Crowley rolled his eyes with a huff as he coiled his scarf around his neck. “I’ll be good, I promise. I won’t run anyone over and I’ll go slowly.”

“It’d be very nice of you,” Aziraphale cautiously answered, not looking particularly comforted by his reassurances. Crowley didn’t dignify that with an answer, slipping into his still-damp coat and out into the darkening night. It was barely half past five in the afternoon, but the days were getting shorter.

Between the rainy day and the darkness, the main path was mostly empty. It was lit quite sporadically by little streetlights mounted on delicate black stems of wrought iron, which Crowley liked better than broad daylight. He stuck his hands into his pockets and rejoiced at the lack of squelching from his boots, while Aziraphale’s umbrella marked every step with a soft thud. They were both a far cry from being dry, but it was still a marked improvement from before.

The weather behaved fairly well almost until they reached the underground parking lot where Crowley had parked his Bentley, and they had to rush only the last odd yard to escape the first heavy drops announcing the next burst of rain. Crowley brushed the wetness off his hair, dreading the thought of what his carefully styled look must have been reduced to by all those impromptu showers, and led Aziraphale to his car. He pouted a little as Aziraphale climbed into the seat looking like he was signing his own death sentence, but said nothing about it. If Aziraphale wanted agonising slow, Crowley would give him agonising slow. He lived to serve.

(And wasn’t that a little too close to the mark?

Foolish, foolish Crowley.)

The drive to Aziraphale’s home, all in all, was quite uneventful. Crowley did his best to behave, and although Aziraphale had looked quite alarmed at some of Crowley’s shrewdest manoeuvres, he hadn’t got started with the yelling, which Crowley considered a victory in itself. They did get quite a few wrong turns here and there, since Aziraphale didn’t quite seem to grasp the concept of one-way roads, but Crowley managed to pull up by Aziraphale’s place without incidents.

“You live here?” Crowley asked, peering at the building. It looked old, but well-kept and recently painted. He spied a second-hand shop on the ground floor, already closed, and lights blinking from the windows on the second floor.

Aziraphale shrugged.

“It’s nicer on the inside,” he remarked, a little defensively. “There is a little flat connected to the shop, and since the owner doesn’t live there, he decided to rent it out. It’s not much, but it’s nice and central and cheap, or at least as cheap as London ever gets. And it’s mine.”

Crowley nodded. He could appreciate the sentiment.

“‘s nice,” he said, trying to convey his understanding. He hadn’t been particularly successful, from Aziraphale’s little frown, but that was the best he could do.

“Thank you for the lift, my dear,” Aziraphale sighed, after a moment. It was meant as an obvious farewell, and yet he didn’t make a move to get out.

“Don’t mention it, angel,” Crowley replied, because it was only polite. He decided to wait him out, curious and a little unnerved by the prolonged silence.

Eventually, Aziraphale sighed again and asked, “Do you have plans for Tuesday, around lunchtime? I have another late shift, and I thought... well, it’d be nice to grab a bite before work, if you’re amenable.”

Crowley almost agreed on the spot, then he remembered that he did have something to do on Tuesday. He’d made an appointment for an STD check, and while that wasn’t exactly his favourite way to spend his lunch break, he kept to those appointments religiously. Just because he liked sex, it didn’t mean he was going to be an idiot about it. He’d had a pretty huge scare in his twenties, when one of his casual hook-ups called him up and told him he got HCV and Crowley’d better get looked over as well, and while it’d turned out to be a false alarm, at least for Crowley, he’d got the fear of God put into him, and he’d tried to be as safe as possible ever since. That also meant an STD check every three months. Remembering the last time he’d actually had sex with someone who wasn’t his own old self, Crowley thought a little dejectedly that his next appointment was more overkill than a sound prevention plan, but he wasn’t going to skip it either way. He’d never skipped an appointment in the last fifteen years.

Crowley sighed, shaking his head.

“‘m sorry angel, I’m busy on Tuesday,” he said, feeling a little guilty at Aziraphale’s crestfallen expression, though the man was valiantly trying to hide it. Crowley felt something else, too–a spark of hope, perhaps. Whatever odd mixed signals Aziraphale was giving away, he did seem to appreciate Crowley’s company. “We could do another day, though,” he added, hoping against hope that he was sounding merely accommodating, and not as desperate as he felt. “Any day you like.”

Aziraphale brightened up at that, and Crowley felt something shift in his centre of gravity, as though the pull Aziraphale had on him was readjusting its grip, preparing to tug even harder. Crowley didn’t have it in him to be even worried anymore.

“How does a coffee on Wednesday evening sound like?” Aziraphale asked, so obviously excited that Crowley’s heart did something painful and vaguely alarming in his chest. “There is this lovely little café close to your workplace that we could try out. I’ve never been there, but I’ve been told it’s quite good. They have delicious soups.”

“Sounds great. Let’s say at five?”

“Wonderful. I’ll see you on Wednesday, then, dear boy,” Aziraphale said, gaze lingering for a moment before he slid gracefully out of the car and closed the door with care. Crowley, who hated people who slammed the doors of his car as if they were trying to hurl them into a new dimension, thought even more fondly of Aziraphale because of it. And that _dear boy_ was doing things to his skin that didn’t bear thinking about.

Crowley watched Aziraphale walk up to a secluded door at the side of the shop and disappear inside, hoping to catch him looking back one last time.

He did.

It was a quick thing, so fast that Crowley would’ve missed it if he’d blinked, but Aziraphale did look back–did look at him.

Crowley was smirking to himself all the way to work.

* * *

Anathema was back to the office, on Monday morning. Crowley spotted the lush wave of her dark hair from his own cubicle across the open space, and knew that it was only a question of time before she’d come knocking for information. He wasn’t sure why she was all that invested in whatever he and Aziraphale had been up to, but Crowley suspected that it was simple curiosity mixed with some old-fashioned boredom. And if he knew her at all, Anathema was also feeling quite proprietary towards what she considered her own idea, and wanted to make personally sure that everything was working out the way it was supposed to (or she wanted to, which was probably one and the same).

Crowley was going through his second cup of coffee for the day when Anathema showed up at his desk. She looked so happy and bright she almost shone, after one week away from that dank basement, and Crowley wondered a little wistfully what that felt like. She also wasted no time on pleasantries, as usual.

“Hello, Crowley. How was your week?” she purred, stealing a chair from a nearby desk, which was currently empty, and dragging it to Crowley’s cubicle.

Crowley regarded her with an arched brow, as she sat gracefully down.

“Fine. How was yours?”

“Absolutely great, I set up a nest at the library and wrote 5000 words on Simone de Beauvoir in four days,” Anathema answered, rolling her eyes at his obvious attempt at eluding her unspoken question. “Speaking of which.”

“Speaking of Simone de Beauvoir?”

“Don’t even try that with me,” Anathema hissed, levelling a withering glare at him. “Speaking of libraries. And librarians.”

“Any particular librarian in mind?” Crowley purred, just for the fun of it. He tried to keep his most innocent expression grafted onto his face, but he knew it was rubbish to begin with. Innocent was not programmed into his genetic code.

“Crowley,” Anathema sighed. “I’ve already talked to Aziraphale, I know you’re going to the wedding. And I know you’re seeing each other. ‘Strictly as friends’, Aziraphale said, but I’m calling bullshit.”

_Strictly as friends._

Of course they were. Crowley was still trying to decipher whether Aziraphale was interested in him in any way, and not a long time before he would’ve been thrilled to have Aziraphale call him a friend. Yet, he couldn’t avoid a stab of disappointment.

_Friends_. Oh, well. It could’ve been worse.

(Needy, greedy Crowley. That simply won’t do.)

“We’ve known each other for what, two weeks? What else did you expect?” he asked, aiming for casual.

Anathema scoffed at him.

“Yes, two weeks. And how often have you seen each other in these two weeks? Because I’ve managed to squeeze about a movie night and a dinner with Newt in the same time-span, and he’s my _boyfriend_.”

Crowley decided that scrolling through his e-mails was way safer than soldiering through that specific conversation while staring at Anathema in her scarily perceiving eyes, so he turned with a huff towards his computer and pretended to be very focused on something.

“I thought you weren’t trying to set us up. I thought that was just a good match between a friend bored out of his mind and another who was having a little too much excitement on his hands.”

“Yes,” Anathema replied, haughtily tossing a lock of black hair behind her shoulder, “but that had been before the two of you started to see each other almost every day. And between Aziraphale getting all fussy and fretful every time I breach the subject and you going all evasive on me, I think there is something going on here I ought to know about.”

Crowley rolled his eyes.

“He does that every time he talks about his family. It’s nothing to write home about. And that’s exactly why I’m being _evasive_, apparently. It’s his own damn family. If he doesn’t want to talk about it, neither should I.”

The only result Crowley got from his tirade was to be stared down by Anathema for an uncomfortable amount of time. He was actually starting to squirm on his seat, when she mercifully picked the conversation up again.

“Right. How nice of you.”

Crowley scoffed.

“Not really, but I’ll take it.”

“Of course, I forgot,” Anathema shot back, looking shrewdly at him. “You like it better when people think you’re an asshole. Pity that Aziraphale thinks you’re nice, too.”

“Aziraphale doesn’t know me,” Crowley hissed back, thoroughly unsettled now. “And what is it you want to know? We are friends, he told you so himself. But since we need to pull this boyfriend stunt you so helpfully set us up for, we need to get a few details out of the way, which is why we’re meeting so often. That’s all. Once the blasted wedding is over, I’m sure we’ll be seeing much less of each other.”

And that, well, that was the exact moment Crowley’s carefully-constructed facade fell and shattered.

Of course. That was only temporary, and he’d known it, he’d always known it. It would last only until Aziraphale got what he wanted, and then, who knew, perhaps they could squeeze one coffee here and there once in a while. What else could they possibly have to talk about, as Aziraphale had so graciously put it? They were complete strangers whose lives barely overlapped, with absolutely nothing in common. Without Anathema, they would’ve never even met each other.

Friends. That was kind of Aziraphale, but they weren’t even that. Acquaintances was more like it.

Crowley had no idea what his face was showing, right then and there, but he hated the way Anathema’s expression softened, how sad for him she looked.

“Oh, Crowley,” she whispered, trying to touch his hand.

Crowley snatched it away.

“Don’t.”

Anathema looked at him a moment longer, before turning on her heels and quietly going away.

Crowley stared unblinkingly at his computer screen until his eyes hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos to anyone who recognised the movies Crowley was referring to <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, one day earlier than scheduled. I apologise for being ridiculous. You guys, on the other hand, are absolutely AMAZING. I’ve never received such astonishing amounts of love in any other fandom before, so thank you, thank you, thank you <3

Crowley’s mood didn’t improve throughout the following days; if anything, it deteriorated. Getting his STD check served only as a reminder that he hadn’t been touched in more than two months, and that the situation didn’t look amenable to change any time soon. He could go to a bar and try to chat someone up, of course, but was there even a point? He knew that anyone who’d been in the game for more than a week would take a good sniff at him and smell desperation from a mile away. And desperation might look good on a twenty-something in hormonal overdrive begging for a shag, but on anyone past his thirties reeked like a bad fish. Pathetic wasn’t particularly hot, those days.

The only bright point of his week was the upcoming coffee with Aziraphale, and even if Crowley was well aware that a huge chunk of responsibility for his general state of misery lay that way, he was also too much of a stubborn, greedy bastard to give it up. Being with Aziraphale tended to make him feel better about the world, and even if after he’d have to deal with a painful drop like a bad hangover after a wonderful night of debauchery, well, he’d think about it when the moment came. Crowley was all for living in the present, because the past was a shithole and the future didn’t look good either.

It was therefore with mixed feelings that Crowley sauntered to the coffee shop Aziraphale had told him about, at five and a half on the dot on Wednesday evening. Aziraphale had called him the day before to give him the address, despite Crowley suggesting that a text would be just as good, and Crowley had been obnoxiously happy to hear his voice, and hopelessly charmed when Aziraphale had confessed with some embarrassment that he wasn’t very good at texting. Not only it took him ages to type a decent text on the electronic keyboard of his phone, but he disliked the idea on principle. Phones were made for calling, not for writing e-mails or whatever mischief people lately got up to on those things.

(Crowley had seen Aziraphale use his phone to check that no one had outbid him in the purchase of one of his antique books, but when he dared point that out, Aziraphale had sternly rebutted that that was another matter entirely.)

Crowley’s stupid heart thumped painfully in his chest, when he saw Aziraphale standing outside the coffee shop in his gabardine coat and faded waistcoat. He had his small round glasses perched low on his nose, and was observing with mild interest the people walking back and forth along the busy street. He was leaning a little on his huge tartan umbrella, and Crowley remembered the day he’d shared it with him–rain thrumming over their heads and curtaining the world, as they sat side by side.

“Hey, Aziraphale,” Crowley greeted him, and Aziraphale smiled brightly in return.

“Good evening, my dear boy.”

The endearment brushed down Crowley’s spine like a feather, and he rewarded Aziraphale with a soft, honest smile.

The coffee shop turned out to be a bit fuller than expected, but still not as cramped as the café in St. James’s Park. Aziraphale seemed to bear the crowd with a little more grace than the Sunday before, and if Crowley had had to guess, he’d have said that Aziraphale felt still a bit embarrassed and guilty about his outburst. Crowley would never admit to having found it rather endearing.

(Crowley was helplessly, hopelessly, royally fucked.)

They sat at a tiny table tucked away into a corner, and after carefully perusing the menu (at least on Aziraphale’s part), they ordered the soup of the day and a black coffee for Crowley. He wasn’t particularly hungry, but given that he’d skipped lunch, he decided that he could do with some dinner.

They chattered a little about their week, which soothed Crowley’s bad mood in a way he couldn’t even begin to understand, and soon he was feeling relaxed enough to enjoy Aziraphale’s company without brooding over things that could not be changed. It was a pretty unhelpful pastime, and listening to Aziraphale talking about his translation was much better. Aziraphale had asked Crowley about his work, too, but given that he was currently writing a piece on some starlet’s rumoured divorce that was less interesting than watching concrete dry up in the sun, Crowley had quickly diverted their conversation back to Aziraphale’s much more interesting life.

They were just waiting for their soups to cool down enough not to burn their tongues when Aziraphale, out of the blue, brought up a topic they’d never breached before.

“You know, Crowley, I’ve just realised,” Aziraphale started, as he fastidiously set his napkin on his lap and rearranged his cutlery. “I barely know anything about you. Do you have any family around? Because you’ve never told me about them, and I thought...”

The question had been so abrupt that Crowley felt a little blindsided by it. He went very, very still, blinking at Aziraphale like a deer caught in the headlights.

(Which was twice as preposterous, because he was wearing his blasted sunglasses even if they were indoor and it was dark outside.

Maybe Anathema did have a point, about the Blues Brothers thing.)

The silence seemed to cue Aziraphale into something, since he quickly backtracked with a little harried frown on his face.

“But only if that’s not... only if I’m not intruding,” he fretted, risking quick little glances at Crowley’s face when no answer was forthcoming. “Oh, my, that was such an insensitive question, wasn’t it? You don’t have to answer, if it makes you uncomfortable.”

Aziraphale’s obvious worry filtered through the walls Crowley usually kept firmly in place when his family was called upon. He shook his head with a small smile, more grateful than usual for his glasses.

“Don’t fret, angel, ‘s ok,” he offered. “But family is one pretty thorny subject, so I’d say that whether I’ll answer or not depends on how long we’ve been dating.”

It was a diversion, Crowley knew that perfectly well, but he needed a little more time to bring himself to talk about his uncle. It wasn’t anything particularly tragic, and he didn’t have any qualms about talking it out in a crowded place, but it also wasn’t something he usually shared with people. He needed a moment to regroup, if they were truly going down that road.

The diversion worked just as well as Crowley had hoped. Aziraphale stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, then something clicked in his brain, and he let out a relieved little chuckle.

“Yes, of course. We haven’t talked about that yet, have we?” he offered. Crowley didn’t think for a moment he’d fooled him, and was grateful to Aziraphale for giving him the reprieve he needed.

“Not really,” Crowley answered lightly. “All we’ve got so far is that a dashing stranger chatted you up in a coffee shop and swept you right off your feet.”

Aziraphale scoffed.

“I haven’t said anything of the sort, dear boy. I said we’ve met at the coffee shop and started talking. That was, let’s say... three months ago.”

“Hmm, three months and you’re already taking me to meet the family?” Crowley purred, utterly incapable of reining in the flirting. “I must be _very_ good.”

“You are a really nice man, and I would like for you to meet my siblings,” Aziraphale primly answered. “But perhaps you’re right. Three months is not very long.”

“We can’t stretch it too much either, though,” Crowley pointed out. “We don’t really know each other well enough to pull off a one-year relationship.”

That seemed to be the wrong thing to say. Aziraphale froze for a moment, and then blinked up at him.

“Yes, I agree. One year is not... is not good.”

Crowley had no hope to understand what was going on, but since he had no idea how to tackle whatever that was, he decided to carry on with the conversation as smoothly as possible.

“What about six months? Not so long to be too difficult to pull off, not so short to be unlikely for me to meet the family.”

There was some residual tightness to Aziraphale’s shoulders as he thought it over, but he eventually nodded.

“Six months should be fine. We had time to get to know each other. To date properly and such.”

Crowley wondered what it’d be like, to date Aziraphale for six whole months. To take him out for dinners and walks in the park and cups of tea in quaint little shops, and then to bring him home, to slam him against the door and rut against him until his own heart exploded. Or perhaps to lie entangled in bed, slowly fisting the man’s cock while Aziraphale pressed open-mouthed kisses and breathy endearments into Crowley’s skin, gentle and slow and soft in a way that was almost cruel. Six months. All the little acts of atrocious tenderness he could grab and treasure under his skin in six months, dropping like pearls from his clasped hands.

Crowley realised with a start that Aziraphale was looking expectantly at him, and that he hadn’t said a single word in reply.

“Yeah,” he answered weakly. “Good. Six months.”

Aziraphale stared at him for a moment longer, before deciding that whatever was up with him, it was clearly best to leave Crowley to sort it out. Crowley thanked him silently for it.

“Well, we’d best tuck in, now that that’s sorted,” Aziraphale declared, picking up his cutlery and tasting his soup. “Oh, this is _very_ good. We must come here again.”

Crowley felt something quiver at the back of his skull at Aziraphale’s words, something between a shiver and a heartbeat. _We_. Perhaps Aziraphale wasn’t planning on dropping him like a hot potato as soon as that wedding debacle was over, after all. Or perhaps he was only being polite. Crowley couldn’t rightly tell. He just wanted it too much, and he’d never been good at being objective even when he wasn’t so deeply involved.

He tried his soup, instead. He wasn’t particularly keen on leeks, but he had to admit that it was just the perfect degree of thick, creamy and rich on his tongue, and the croutons worked quite well with the texture. Nothing to write home about, but it _was_ a good soup.

The conversation lulled a bit, as they ate. It was a companionable silence, and Crowley relaxed by increments. He was warm, comfortable, and Aziraphale seemed to radiate a feeling of calm the like of which Crowley had never quite experienced in his life. Aziraphale was far from perfect, which Crowley actually preferred, but when he was content, he felt like a wave of serenity washing against Crowley’s walls. It was intoxicating.

(Crowley was still waiting for the moment when Aziraphale would show something of himself that Crowley would hate, something that would break the intolerable spell that Aziraphale had been casting over him since the day they’d met, but that moment never seemed to come, and Crowley was starting to suspect with something close to panic that it probably never would. He’d just find himself wrapped into Aziraphale tighter and tighter, and getting yanked away when he was of no use anymore would tear him asunder like a paper boat in a storm.

But that was for later. Now was for now.)

As he sipped his coffee, Crowley found himself reconsidering Aziraphale’s question. It was fair enough, he supposed, to share something about his family. God knew Aziraphale had spilled his guts about his own more than enough, even if he hadn’t wanted to, and the careful, gentle way he’d asked was twisting in Crowley’s guts like a knife. He realised with something akin to shock that he _wanted_ to talk about that. He’d been carrying that specific ten-ton stone for so long that a part of him wanted nothing more than shed the weight from his shoulders, just for a little while. What was the worst that could happen? It was nothing, really. It was just a little too close to his chest to be shared with strangers, but Aziraphale had already slipped way past his defences, and his family was just a stepping stone Aziraphale had left behind, not one he still had to cross. Crowley had worse secrets than that.

Aziraphale seemed to guess his state of mind without a word. His eyes were bright and earnest as he regarded him, and his voice low, as he asked: “What are you thinking about, my dear? You can tell me, if you like.”

Such a horrifying, devastating gentleness. Crowley’s skin ached with it.

“Well, you know. I was thinking, er. I was thinking about what you asked me. Before. About my family.”

Aziraphale was staring at him with almost unblinking stillness.

“And?” he prodded gently, soft and hushed as if he thought he could shatter the moment with anything louder than a whisper.

“And. Well. Alright. I could talk to you a little about them, if you wanted.” Crowley hesitated, rather unnerved, then resumed: “Not that there is much to talk about. It’s just, well, it’s just a story. Nothing more. They’re not around. I’m... er, well.”

_I’m alone_, he almost said. Almost, but not quite.

“Anything you want to tell me, Crowley. I’m listening.”

Aziraphale was using his name with such obscene tenderness that Crowley felt almost like crying.

“My parents died when I was very young,” he started, in a hushed, halting voice. “Car crash. I… I don’t remember much of it. I was at school, I think, and my uncle came to pick me up. He’d never done that before and he hasn’t since, which I guess is why it kind of stuck with me. I can’t tell you if I cried, if I was sad, even if I understood what was happening. I just remember my uncle waiting for me out of some door. I must have been about four or five years old.”

Crowley’s voice broke off. He was staring at a wooden beam a few inches off Aziraphale’s face, just enough to keep his bright blue eyes out of focus. It was too much, talking about this while staring at someone straight in the eye. His brain couldn’t work through both his own deeply-buried feelings and whatever emotional responses his words would bring about in somebody else. It was simply too much to process.

But Crowley had started this thing, now, and he’d see it to its end. He was committed. And he wasn’t going to chicken out of something as stupid as a simple recounting of events that had happened such a long time before. He was better than that.

“It was my uncle who took me in, eventually, since there was nobody else around,” he soldiered on, voice turning harsh and clipped. “He had two sons and a divorced wife that I never met. I think she ran off with a banker or something. We were, well. We were poor. I worked my way through school, the odd jobs here and there. Coffee shops, diners, supermarkets. Got some money from my parents at eighteen. I also got their house, a huge, pretty thing in Mayfair. I sold the house and got the fuck out of my uncle’s place. Haven’t talked to either him or my cousins ever since. I don’t even know if they’re still alive.”

Crowley’s voice died out slowly, like smoke on his tongue. The shop seemed silent, even if it wasn’t.

“Oh, my dear boy,” Aziraphale whispered, low and sad and excruciatingly compassionate. “I’m so sorry.”

Crowley stared at him, stared at those quiet blue eyes. Aziraphale looked just as sorry as he’d said he was. It was unendurable.

“It wasn’t that bad,” Crowley said, realising that he’d fucked up, that he was whining when there were people out there who got much worse as their lot in life. “My uncle wasn’t cruel or anything. And my cousins were a couple of wankers, but never... never like that. It was just not ideal. We never really got along well together. So I left. It got better, after.”

Aziraphale was still gazing at him with those sad, soulful eyes.

Crowley looked away, and almost jumped out of his chair when he felt the press of Aziraphale’s hand over his. It took him everything he got not to yank his hand away, but to let himself relish the touch, instead. He could feel his nerves quiver, incapable of letting go of the fight-or-flight reaction that talking about himself always ignited under his skin. And yet, the gentle pressure of Aziraphale’s hand was grounding, and it was making his skin sing. Aziraphale’s palm was just as buttery-soft as he remembered. Soft and warm and steady.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale repeated, with infinite kindness. He didn’t add anything to it, because there was nothing else to say.

Crowley nodded. He felt emptied to the marrows. He knew that later on he would lose his mind over that nice bit of sharing and caring, over letting someone else take such a good long look at whatever lay beneath his skin, but now he only felt a cold, almost wintry silence. His skin was mute and his nerves still. He wanted to be touched so deeply that fingers would burrow into his ribcage and squeeze his heart. He felt exhausted, all of a sudden. He wanted to lay his weary head on his crossed arms and sleep.

But he wasn’t in his flat, he was in a coffee shop, and he was with someone he’d actually like to stick around, if Crowley hadn’t already bored him to tears. He was with someone that was still holding his hand, even if he didn’t have to.

Crowley considered turning his hand around, pressing his palm against Aziraphale’s, holding him in turn. He thought better of it, but the twitch of the aborted movement gave him away. Aziraphale withdrew his hand, albeit slowly, and Crowley was left cold and bereft.

“Would you like something else, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, ever so softly. The sweep of his lashes hung low over his eyes, slightly downturned and with lids at half-mast.

It took Crowley a moment to understand what he was talking about.

“’m good,” Crowley said, shaking his head. “What about you? Slice of cake?” he asked, trying to lighten the mood a little. He felt off in the worst way, and his own lack of balance was rippling into the very air they shared, making for an uneasy mood. Crowley wanted nothing more than to slip back into the content, relaxed state he usually tumbled into whenever he was with Aziraphale.

The other man hummed under his breath, staring down at his plate with a considering look painted over his face. Crowley was about to call the waitress back for a dessert menu, when Aziraphale uttered the most unbelievable thing.

“You know what? I don’t think I’m in the mood for cake tonight,” he said slowly, lightly, as though that wasn’t the first time in their entire acquaintance that Aziraphale had turned down dessert. He took the napkin from his lap and folded it carefully, placing it on the table. The gesture lingered for a moment, deceptively quiet but definitive, like a period at the end of a sentence. “I think I’m good, too.”

Crowley stared at him from over the rim of his sunglasses, stricken.

“Are you sure?”

Was it him? Had his own wretched whining made the poor man lose his appetite? It was even worse than he’d thought. That was rotten work.

Aziraphale harrumphed his question away.

“I’m quite sure,” he answered, eyes fixed on his bowl. He seemed busy thinking something over, his mouth set in a tight line that wasn’t quite a grimace, but close enough. He was playing with the corner of his napkin, rolling it between his manicured fingers. “I’m tired, Crowley,” he sighed, finally looking up at him. His eyes were open wide and oddly expectant. “Will you take me home?”

Crowley’s stomach dropped like a stone. Of course. Aziraphale had had quite enough of his whining, and he’d decided to cut the evening short. Crowley couldn’t blame him. The mood had been definitely spoiled, and Aziraphale was probably feeling uncomfortable now. Or even worse–pitiful. Toeing softly around the poor miserable git that couldn’t talk about his family without sounding like a Victorian orphan with consumption.

Crowley considered laughing it off, apologising playfully about spoiling the mood. Coaxing Aziraphale into ordering his cake, perhaps taking a bite out of it even if he didn’t really like sweets, just to please him. He thought about forcing the mood to shift back to neutrality through sheer force of will. He knew he could. And most importantly, Crowley knew that that was his one and only chance to squeeze gravity out of that specific topic. He could turn it into something lighter, less charged, less horrendously intimate, but he had to be quick about it, and the switch had to be flawless. If he floundered, if he let on how uncomfortable he was, he’d lose that chance forever. And if he let the moment pass, it’d be forever marked, impossible to forget. He’d be permanently stained in Aziraphale’s eyes with the weight of his own weakness.

And yet, even if that was the one single occasion where he knew he _needed_ to, he didn’t feel like faking his way through. Which was absurd, because it wouldn’t even be faking, not really. He hadn’t lied when he said that it wasn’t a big thing. It was just something he wasn’t used to talking about, which had become through the years huge and stormy into his mind without any real cause. There were things that upset him much worse than that, things that he could barely voice into his head, and yet he’d made a mess and charged something so stupid with so much weight. His uncle and cousins didn’t deserve that kind of importance. Even more, they didn’t deserve the chance to spoil his time with Aziraphale, or that fragile, incomprehensible thing they shared.

Screw them all.

Crowley was ready to play it cool, to smooth down the heavy air hanging between them, but a look into Aziraphale’s gentle eyes killed whatever nonsense was about to roll out of his mouth. He’d waited too long, lost in his own mind. The timeframe in which he could’ve laughed it all off was long gone. It was over. There was nothing left to say, aside from admitting defeat.

“Sure thing, angel,” he said, voice low and unsteady. That was unbearable, undignified. He used every ounce of willpower he had left to pull himself together, to slink his way out of that fucking mess. He always did. He smirked at Aziraphale, hoping it didn’t look as hollow as he felt. “I’ll take you home.”

Aziraphale didn’t protest when Crowley picked up the bill, which was a first. Crowley was too tired to wonder about it. He simply accepted Aziraphale’s quiet acquiescence without comments, slipping into his coat and leading him to his car. There was a heavy silence hanging between them, punctuated by the rhythmic tapping of Aziraphale’s umbrella against the pavestone. Crowley wasn’t sure if it was strained or not, only that he didn’t know how to break it. He had no clue about what was going on in Aziraphale’s head, and by now he was too scared to ask. He just wanted to get home and sleep. That usually helped. He’d sleep off the trashing and heaving of his unruly mind like he would a bad hangover, hoping that, come morning, it’d be all forgotten, or at least put back into perspective. It worked, sometimes, right until it didn’t.

The ride to Soho was also uncharacteristically quiet. Crowley tried his best not to scar Aziraphale with his driving, and Aziraphale didn’t protest once, not even when Crowley barely averted running over a drunken group that hadn’t crossed the road fast enough. Crowley had almost perfect memory for streets and routes, and had to ask Aziraphale for directions only twice. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of the low, unobtrusive voice with which Aziraphale answered him. He didn’t seem uncomfortable, only oddly subdued, and Crowley was unfamiliar with that particular hue of Aziraphale’s mood. He seemed almost, well, nervous, if Crowley had to make a wild guess. Which didn’t make any sense at all.

The Bentley slipped smoothly along the curb, coming to a halt in front of Aziraphale’s building block. Crowley left both hands on the steering wheel, allowing the purring of the slumbering engine to travel through his skin and soothe his skittery nerves. He waited for Aziraphale to make a move, but the man seemed glued to the seat. Eventually, the silence simply grew too tense to be borne, and Crowley broke it off by clearing his throat. It was a raspy, ugly sound that made Crowley wince.

“So,” he started, trying and failing to find some footing in whatever that was. “We’re here, angel. I… well, I’m sorry for… for…”

“Would you like to come in?” Aziraphale asked, cutting through Crowley’s stammering, foolish attempt at an apology.

Crowley blinked at him, too taken aback to think of an answer. Aziraphale wasn’t even looking at him. He was staring straight ahead, mouth downturned into a grimace, eyes round and open wide. He was clutching his umbrella for dear life. And yet, his voice had been steady, almost grimly resolute.

“I, what?” Crowley stuttered, completely useless.

Aziraphale’s grimace deepened a little. It was difficult to see him clearly in the dim lights coming from the streetlamps, especially through the sunglasses. He looked like he was frowning.

“Would you like to come in?”

All right, Crowley had heard him just fine the first time.

His brain came screeching to a halt. Was Aziraphale actually offering what Crowley thought he was? Crowley could hardly believe it. And yet. The timing was off. The mood was off. He couldn’t sense any kind of overwhelming lust coming from the man sitting beside him, only some sort of dour determination that didn’t quite add up to that sort of invitation. It didn’t look like Aziraphale actually wanted him to get into his house. It looked like he thought that was the right thing to do.

It dawned on Crowley, then. A pity fuck. That was what was on the plate for the night. A pity fuck for the miserable twit who couldn’t talk about his childhood issues without sounding like Oliver Twist. His whining had actually succeeded in making Aziraphale feel sorry enough that he’d offer a charitable hand-job to cheer Crowley up.

He was going to be sick.

“Sorry, angel,” he answered, forcing himself to smile through his heartbreak. “Got an early rise tomorrow. Better call it a night.”

Aziraphale turned, studying his face with a frown. Crowley couldn’t tell if he was disappointed or relieved. He couldn’t tell what Aziraphale was thinking at all. He was simply too rattled to read him.

“I see,” Aziraphale said, after a beat. “I’ll let you go, then.”

Aziraphale opened the door, letting the cold in. Crowley shivered. Next thing he knew, Aziraphale was staring at him with piercing eyes, one foot on the car mat and one on the curb.

“Will you be all right?” he asked Crowley in a strange, stilted voice. It sounded forced. It chimed hollow and mournful in Crowley’s head.

“Of course I will,” Crowley answered through his teeth. He rearranged his lips into a smile, squashed anything else under his fist. He could deal with it later. He was going to play it cool, now. He could do that. He was going to smile until his face hurt if it killed him. “You worry too much, angel. Nothing happened. Why would I ever not be alright?”

Aziraphale didn’t seem convinced. He stared at him with narrowed eyes, mouth downturned.

“If you say so.” Aziraphale slipped out of the car, and then stopped. He placed a hand on the roof and stooped, looking inside. Why wasn’t he leaving? All Crowley wanted was to go home. Pity felt like spit on his skin. “I thought… I thought we could have dinner together on Friday, if you have the time.”

He sounded tentative, as though he wasn’t completely sure whether his offer would be accepted or thrown into his face. Crowley wondered if it came from a place of compassion or a place of need, since Aziraphale would still require Crowley’s help in the following weeks. The idea that Aziraphale could be so calculating, however, was preposterous. Crowley really needed to sleep all of that off, if he was starting to question Aziraphale’s integrity. The man had a well-concealed wicked streak to him, that much was true, but he was about as crafty as a three-year-old with a rattle.

Crowley tilted his head. His whirling mind was misfiring like a stuttering engine, and yet, Crowley knew that he wouldn’t be able to deny Aziraphale twice. Pity or not, Crowley wanted to see him again. He was already regretting refusing Aziraphale’s invitation. What was to him a pity fuck? He’d got a few before. He’d given a few before. They rang hollow and shameful and enraging in turn, like a Russian roulette, but they’d still been better than nothing at times. Why should he even care? He’d get to touch Aziraphale, to feel those hands ghosting over his skin. He should’ve said yes. And yet, he had an inkling that it’d be different with him.

The truth was, Crowley was scared. He knew, with preternatural, unwavering certainty, that looking into Aziraphale’s eyes and seeing nothing but badly-concealed tolerance would destroy him. Letting Aziraphale get so close out of pity would be unendurable, a blow from which he’d never recover. Crowley couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t risk being shattered so thoroughly that he would never be able to pierce the scattered pieces of himself back together. He couldn’t.

But dinner he could do. He _had_ to. There was no other choice. He couldn’t let Aziraphale go either.

(Stupid Crowley, allowing himself to get cornered in such a way that a step forward would kill him and a step backwards would destroy him. That was no one’s fault but his own.)

“Friday sounds good,” he said, when the silence couldn’t be stretched any further. Aziraphale seemed to relax slightly at that, stiff muscles loosening up. “I guess you know a place.”

His attempt at humour was met with a smile. It was a weak, pale thing, but a smile nonetheless.

“I know a place.” A pause, and then, softer: “Goodnight, my dear.”

“’night, angel.”

Aziraphale lingered a moment longer, peering at him with almost unnerving steadiness, before straightening up and closing the door. Crowley watched him walk slowly to his door, but drove away before seeing if Aziraphale had looked back or not.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

* * *

It was barely half past nine, by the time Crowley got home. His mind felt hollow, like a grape with its pulp squeezed out until only the peel was left. He’d almost turned back twice, ready to beg Aziraphale to let him inside, to fuck him into the mattress until his brain was firing again on all cylinders. Ready to take pity, if pity was everything he could get. But he couldn’t. He wasn’t even sure he could take intimacy, right now. It didn’t matter that he craved it like a starving man would crave a steak. Everything was too chaotic, roaring under his skin.

He took a shower, fixed his hair. He tried to watch some telly, but he couldn’t focus. He crawled into bed instead, curling up into a ball. He thought about Aziraphale, about taking up his offer. He thought about the way his hand had felt against his own, warm and steady, so unbearably soft. He pictured a body that matched, pressed against his back. The generous give of flesh against his razor-sharp edges, but with a secret strength hidden just underneath. Sturdy muscles flexing as Aziraphale spread a hand against Crowley’s belly, fitting the two of them together like matching gears. Teeth digging into his neck, a half-hard cock pushing insistently against his arse. An arm fitted under his head, and a warm hand gently covering his eyes.

Crowley shuddered from head to toe. His skin felt pulled too tight over his flesh, like an ill-fitting suit. He stretched his arm to the nightstand, yanked the first drawer open, rummaged furiously into it. He hadn’t done that in such a long time. Wanking was simpler, quicker. It didn’t require him to relax, to let himself go. It was mindless and effortless. But his body was craving it now, twice as ferociously for having been so long denied, and Crowley growled through his teeth as he took a hold of the bottle of lubricant lying forgotten in the drawer. It was half-empty, and Crowley vaguely hoped it wasn’t expired. He’d think about it later, though. Right then, he didn’t care.

His hands were shaking, as he spread lube over them. He would probably soil the linen, but he didn’t care about that either. His body was singing with need, his heart was threatening to burst through his chest. It was beating so hard and fast Crowley could feel it in his throat, like a hammer slamming against his ribcage. He slid back under the covers, until not even his head peeked out. The air was warm and stifling there, but that was exactly how Crowley wanted it. He wanted to feel so enwrapped into Aziraphale that he was the only thing Crowley could breathe. He wanted to choke on him. He pictured those thick fingers of his tracing patterns against Crowley’s chest, ribs, pulling at the skin of his navel, clutching at his bony hips. He could almost feel the lazy drag of Aziraphale’s cock between his arsecheeks, unhurried and teasing and yet unrelenting, rubbing against Crowley’s twitching hole over and over.

Crowley’s back arched like a bow, as he brought a hand behind his rump and gingerly massaged the lube into the rim. He pushed a leg a little higher towards his chest and rolled partially onto his belly, to give himself better access. He shuddered at the friction of the mattress against his hardening cock, and humped the bed in a string of stilted, stuttering thrusts as he stroked his hole. He gripped the pillow with the other hand, pressing his face against the knuckles. He was panting against the pillowcase, eyes screwed shut.

_My dear boy_, Aziraphale would whisper into his ear at every lazy roll of his hips. _May I?_

“Yes, please,” Crowley whined, “please, please. Fuck me. Please.”

_Such a mouth you have on you_, Aziraphale chuckled into his mind, prim and proper and yet unbearably filthy. Crowley couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so hard. He was jack-rabbiting into the mattress with enough strength to rattle the bed. He could feel his hole throb under his fingers, and choked a groan against the pillow. His muscles were straining, his skin aching.

“Please, angel, please,” he gasped, in a plaintive, almost sobbing voice that he barely recognised.

(Clingy. Needy.

_Hungry_.)

_Shush, my dear_, Aziraphale whispered soothingly into his ear. _I have you. Let go._

And Crowley did, muscles unlocking as he pushed one slippery finger inside, as far as it’d go. It wasn’t much, from that wretched angle, but it was still enough for Crowley to taste the stretch, like wine on his tongue. It was delicious. He could feel his walls pulse around his finger, squeezing it tight.

Aziraphale would be so pleased. Or so he hoped.

_Yes, of course I am_, Aziraphale purred against the sweaty skin of his neck, thick cockhead burrowing deeper and deeper into Crowley’s quivering body. _You are so lovely, my dearest._

Crowley groaned, a mangled sound that rattled into his ribcage and rolled out with a whoosh through his clenched teeth. He slipped his finger out and then slammed it right in, hips rolling against the mattress almost of their own volition. Crowley could feel his skin prickle, pleasure starting to pool low into his belly. He pushed a second finger inside well before he was ready for it, forcing himself to take it, relishing the sting.

Aziraphale was cooing into his mind, tender and filthy, as he screwed his cock inside a little deeper with every lazy thrust.

_Can you open up a bit more, my dear? For me?_

“Yes, anything, _please_,” Crowley choked out, face pressed so hard into the pillow that his voice was barely more than a muffled whine. He tried to shove another finger inside, but he’d been at it too long, and the lube was starting to dry out. The stretch was the wrong side of painful, and Crowley winced at the burn. He squeezed more lube onto his fingers, hands shaking so badly that this time he was sure he’d got some on the covers. He didn’t care any more than he had before.

His heartbeat was in his throat, in his temples, by the time he got three slippery fingers pushing inside. The stretch burnt still, but it was a lovely, grounding sort of ache. He felt the pull of his rim as it struggled to accommodate the girth, and mourned the shallow depth allowed by the unfortunate angle. He wanted to be filled to burst, to be hooked from inside and chained to someone so tight he could never be freed.

(Such an apt analogy, wasn’t it? When all was said and done, he’d be the one being torn apart, after all.)

_What a wonderful creature you are, my dearest, my very own_, Aziraphale whispered into his mind, sticky and sickly sweet, like a poisonous toffee apple. He was still pressing a hand over Crowley’s eyes, the other splayed with unbendable strength against his belly. Crowley pictured the stocky fingers digging into his skin like a brand, and a shudder slithered like quicksilver down his spine.

“Touch me, angel, please,” he gasped, so low that he could barely hear his own voice. But Aziraphale heard him, of course. He always did.

(Jump to a wretched dinner, to that unbearable, atrocious compassion.

Jump to a teasing so light it tickled, sitting together in a tearoom dappled in soft daylight.

Jump to the first time they met.

_Even Aziraphale realised he’d upset you._

Jump.

Jump.)

_Of course, my dear_, Aziraphale purred into his head, barely louder than a sigh.

Crowley wondered vaguely how ashamed he’d be of that little fantasy of his, when he woke up in the morning. Right then and there, however, the only thing that mattered was the tightness of his skin, the haze fogging his mind, annihilating his thoughts, and the pleasure building like a wave into his guts, so deep and raging that the pull would shatter him into pieces, when the orgasm washed over him. Nothing else came even close.

He flailed a little as he rolled gingerly onto his front, groaning deep into his throat as his fingers slipped out. He felt empty without the stretch, his hole twitching around nothing as he shoved his shoulders into the mattress and rose laboriously onto his knees. The tip of his cock dragged against the covers at the shift, hard and painfully sensitive, and Crowley gasped into the pillow he had smashed against his face. He was tottering onto the knife-edge of too much, skin prickling as he shoved the duvet out of the way and reached behind to thrust three fingers into his throbbing hole. The pillow muffled his wails, as he used his other hand to grasp his aching cock. His palm was still slick with lube, and the slide of his fist down his length sparked toe-curling pleasure along his nerve-endings.

He tried to put some technique into it, to tease the sensitive strip of skin under the head, to thumb the slit, to twist his fingers into his hole with a little more skill then simply shoving them in, but he was edging way too close for that kind of finesse. He had no coordination left, only an almost-solid wave of desperation, a battering need to burst over the end-line. His balls were clenching up, orgasm already building into his guts, inexorable like a seismic wave. Aziraphale had shifted into his mind, kneeling behind him with a hand wrapped around Crowley’s cock as he fucked into him in smooth, easy thrusts. There was something achingly soothing in being held that way, pinned between Aziraphale’s hand and his cock. His fist was gliding along Crowley’s length in even strokes as he urged him to come, warm and solicitous and tortuously sweet.

_You’ve been waiting for so long, my dearest. Come for me._

And Crowley did. He came and came and came, wave after wave, as he groaned into his pillow and his muscles clenched and his skin rippled with shivers. He came until there was nothing left, no pleasure, no pain, no thought. Just a haze that was almost solid, like pre-dawn mist. He held the crouch until the spasms racking his frame subsided, until his cooling skin was beaded with sweat. Then, like a doll with its strings cut, he collapsed onto the mattress.

He’d managed to catch most of his come into his palm, and forced himself to wipe his hands clean, before falling asleep. It felt like an ordeal, muscles heavy like lead, impossible to shift, but eventually he succeeded. He flopped onto the mattress and dragged the covers over his head.

He was thinking about lips pressed sweetly against his nape as he fell asleep.

He didn’t dream, and if he did, he couldn’t remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't timed this chapter with the last from _The Art of Letting Go_ in an attempt to break everybody’s heart, I swear.
> 
> Also yes. Another sad wank.  
I _am_ ridiculous.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week your author actually managed to update according to schedule. I feel so accomplished.
> 
> I hope you will enjoy the chapter, you wonderful people! And before I forget AGAIN, [this](https://twitter.com/nekhen2/) is my Twitter. I’m generally a disaster at anything even remotely social, but if you want to say hi, well, that’s the place.

Crowley woke with a start. A dusky light was filtering through the curtains, bringing more shadows than sharp shapes to his bedroom.

He lay for a moment in his bed, curled into an angry nest of covers. He couldn’t quite pinpoint what had woken him, at first. Then, the alarm clock on his phone chimed again, and Crowley realised that it was six o’clock. He groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. He felt sticky and sweaty and ill-rested, and in dire need of a shower. He sat up, mechanically swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. Then, as his feet flattened against the cold floor, memories of the night before flushed into his mind like flotsam.

Crowley groaned. Although that explained the stickiness, he didn’t feel ready to face that kind of rubbish. Not before a shower and a cup of coffee, at least. He got up, making a beeline for the bathroom. His face looked haggard in the mirror, sickly-pale skin pulled tight over his bones. He looked miserable, Crowley thought. He looked old.

His mind was still foggy, as he slinked into the shower box. He scrubbed himself perfunctory under the spray, foregoing even his customary morning wank. He wasn’t really in the mood for it, and even his cock didn’t seem particularly invested in the idea. It lay almost completely flaccid against his thigh, and barely gave a twitch as Crowley soaped the paper-thin skin. His arse, however, ached enough for both as Crowley reached behind to wash his taint. It was a pleasant sort of sting, but it brought to mind his little fantasy and what had come before. Crowley sighed, hopping out of the shower and drying himself off. He couldn’t avoid the problem forever, he supposed.

His botched evening with Aziraphale occupied his thoughts throughout the entire ride to work. He hadn’t meant to show Aziraphale quite as much of himself, and was embarrassed by the obvious pity his sob-story had elicited in the other man. That was the reason he didn’t like to talk about his past–Crowley didn’t know how to deal with sympathy, and disliked being the object of compassion. He didn’t need anyone to bleed for him. Even less Aziraphale.

Crowley grasped the wheel so tight his knuckles turned white. Pity. Exactly the sort of sentiment he hoped to inspire in someone he wanted to bed. How sexy.

That, of course, brought Aziraphale’s invitation into the forefront of his mind.

The night before, Crowley had been certain that he’d been offered nothing other than a pity fuck, but now he wasn’t so sure anymore. He’d been so busy acting high and mighty that he hadn’t even stopped to think that perhaps Aziraphale had simply meant to offer something to drink to the wretched git who got all teary-eyed over his soup, and sex had never even come into the equation.

Crowley wasn’t sure if that was better or worse. His choices seemed shite either way.

His mood hadn’t improved much, by the time he got to the office. Ironically, that was usually the best disposition to get some work done. It was difficult to dream of a better life, when his mood was so deep into the dumps. And if he couldn’t get anything he wanted, well, at least he could feel somewhat accomplished finishing up his latest piece and sending it to Beelzebub. Someone would be happy about something, if anything.

(Provided that Beelzebub could feel such a thing, of course. Crowley wasn’t completely sure he did.)

He was just about to round off some minor pieces for their next issue when Anathema showed up. He was expecting her, and barely tilted his head in acknowledgement.

“Hello, Anathema.”

“Crowley,” she said, in lieu of a greeting. Her elegant hands seemed even more delicate, wrapped around her huge, ugly kraken mug. “You got time for a coffee?”

Crowley thought it over. He felt about as sociable as a rabid truck-driver on a cocaine rush, but sometimes talking to Anathema helped.

“Alright,” he said, saving the file he’d been working on and locking his screen. “Coffee sounds good.”

He followed Anathema into the kitchen with his hands stuck deep into his pockets and his eyes fixed onto the sweep of black lace leading the way without really seeing it.

Anathema was blissfully silent, as she pottered about the kitchenette and brewed a new pot of coffee. Crowley retrieved a passably clean mug for himself and leaned onto the counter. It was his third cup of the day, and yet he was barely awake. He felt tired, almost worn out, without any specific cause. His treacherous mind couldn’t help replaying his dirty little fantasy over and over, in bits and snippets that would’ve made him hard again at the worst possible moments, if he hadn’t felt so dejected. He didn’t trust his cock to stay down forever, though. His shitty moods might take ages to improve, but his cock didn’t seem to share his fondness for brooding spells.

Truth to be told, Crowley wasn’t sure how he felt about the entire thing. He wasn’t shy about sexual fantasies, and he did like to roll over and give up control, now and again, but there was something in the way he’d pictured himself with Aziraphale that reached deeper than anything that had come before.

It wasn’t the sex, exactly. It was the intimacy.

The tenderness, the closeness he’d felt creeping up his spine as he imagined Aziraphale shoving his cock into him as far as it went wasn’t something Crowley normally dealt with. He knew, with uncomfortable clarity, that kindness did something for him, that gentleness appealed to the jagged corners of his riotous mind, but it disturbed him to realise how much he hungered for something as simple as affection.

Crowley understood the stupid things mind and body craved when high on sex, and he could see why he’d wanted them from Aziraphale. There was something so proper about him, so clean, that to Crowley was inherently dirty. Not innocent, no–and most assuredly not virginal. No, a fastidiousness that made Crowley think of being shoved gently but firmly (oh, deliciously so) into the duvet, face down, and buggered into the next century while Aziraphale had little more than his sleeves rolled up.

So, he understood. But there was something about it that was beyond sex, even beyond comfort.

It was the need, Crowley slowly realised, that alarmed him the most. He knew that his interest had developed into a hopeless crush, but he’d had a few of those, and he’d never got in that deep. He’d never ached quite that way for the men he’d wanted in the past, even when he thought he was playing for keepers, and he was unsettled by that staggering, unbearable compulsion he felt to sink his teeth into Aziraphale’s flesh and never let go. It was savage, primeval in a way, and Crowley had the disturbing certainty that he would truly do whatever it took to keep Aziraphale in his life. There would be no low he wouldn’t go, if it meant that Aziraphale would stay.

It rang in every sweet, filthy nothing Aziraphale had whispered into his mind as Crowley brought himself to climax, it’d been branded onto his skin as he came so hard he’d almost blacked out. The need, the hunger, the ache that Crowley couldn’t quite scale back in proportion. The power that simple words had over him, when they chimed in Aziraphale’s voice. Crowley had tried to ignore how often he’d wanked over Aziraphale’s off-handed praise (_You’re quite extraordinary, Mr. Crowley_), but now it was getting impossible to push aside. He wanted, and wanted, and wanted. The strength of that want, that need, was sinking like talons into his skin. He wanted like he’d never quite wanted anything else before, he wanted with his hands and his fingertips and his flesh and his skin and everything ached because of that want, everything cracked open and bled like an open wound. He wanted to touch and be touched with the desperation of a man starving to death in the desert, and just like such, he’d take every scrap he could get even if he knew it was poisonous, because anything at all would be better than the devouring emptiness of ravenous hunger.

(He should’ve said yes. He should’ve said yes to whatever Aziraphale was willing to give, pity or not. He was a moron.)

Dark eyes swam into his focus, and Crowley almost lost his hold onto his mug as he startled back into reality.

“Where were you, just now?” Anathema asked, with something on her lips that was a little too tense to be a smile. “You looked miles away.”

Crowley blinked, trying to drag back his cool from wherever he’d shoved it into. He shrugged, swaying his hips as though he was made of quicksilver as he reached for the fresh pot of coffee.

“Far, far away from here. As far away as I could.”

Anathema huffed, looking a little amused despite of herself.

“I could see that,” she answered, blowing over the rim of her steaming cup. She looked up at him with huge, innocent eyes, as she took a sip. “Thinking about anything in particular?”

Crowley could spot a trap, when he saw one. He glared at her.

“You have anything to say?”

Anathema held his glare with unmoving, unblinking dark eyes. They had lost whatever innocence she’d tried to fill them with. They were hard like stone. And yet, there was something lurking there, like a lingering warmth that Crowley couldn’t quite stand. He looked away first.

“Not really,” she answered, voice low and almost soft. “Do you?”

Crowley took a sip of his coffee. He was deliberately stalling, and knew that Anathema was well aware of that. But she seemed amenable to wait him out, for once.

“I was thinking about Aziraphale,” Crowley finally admitted. Anathema didn’t say anything to that outstanding piece of intelligence, she just kept sipping sedately at her coffee and staring at him. Someone else would’ve found that kind of steady gaze unnerving, but Crowley knew it for what it was–a declaration that he held the entirety of her attention. It was soothing, in a way.

“I was thinking,” Crowley went on, “about the wedding.”

It wasn’t strictly true, in regard to that specific moment, but he’d been wondering about that. He’d been wondering and dreading the answer.

“What about it?” Anathema prompted him, when he hesitated too long for her limited reserves of patience.

“What’s Aziraphale’s deal?” he blurted out, before he could think better of it.

Anathema blinked at him.

“Deal?”

It was a terrible idea, Crowley was well aware of it. But he couldn’t stop. Suddenly, he had to know.

“Yeah. Why doesn’t he have anyone to bring to the blasted wedding?”

Anathema stiffened slightly at the tone. She was getting defensive, Crowley spotted that right away, which meant that there was something there worth knowing. She’d also been taken unaware, which meant that Crowley had some wiggle room to work with to wring the answer out of her. It was barely a sliver, but he’d make sure it counted.

“I thought _you_ were the one he was bringing to the blasted wedding.”

Crowley rolled his eyes.

“You know what I mean. I’d thought he’d be some sort of revolting fellow with no chance in hell to get a date the usual way, but he’s,” _perfect_, “handsome enough to get someone actually _willing_ to meet his family. Instead, he’s stuck with me. Why?”

“I thought _you_ were the willing someone.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes at her.

“You’re abysmally bad at playing dumb, Anathema.”

She held his gaze long enough that Crowley’s resolve was starting to waver a little, by the time she finally looked away.

“It’s Aziraphale’s story, not mine to tell,” she said eventually, tucking reflexively a strand of black hair behind her ear. “If he hasn’t told you anything, I don’t think I should be the one who does.”

Crowley was just as good as her at reading between the lines, when he wanted.

“There _is_ something to say, then.”

Anathema glared at him. She was still putting up a stern front, but Crowley knew, with the unfailing instinct of a journalist, that she was about to crumble. It was just a question of prodding the right weak spots.

“This has nothing to do with you. It’s Aziraphale’s business, and I’m not going to betray his trust by gossiping about it.”

Crowley was taken a little aback. Was that what she really thought of him? Nothing more than a busybody looking for some juicy piece of news?

“It’s not gossiping,” Crowley said, a deep frown on his brows. “And it has _everything_ to do with me.”

Anathema glanced away, took a sip of her coffee. She looked conflicted. Another little nudge and she’d cave, Crowley knew. It was a sickly feeling, and yet, he needed to know. If he couldn’t hold Aziraphale in his arms, he’d make a grab for every little piece of him within grasp.

“Why would Aziraphale’s private business have anything to do with you?” Anathema asked, a little cruelly, even if she hadn’t meant to be.

Crowley stared at her.

“You know why,” he said, voice low and unsteady. It was the most he’d ever admitted to her, the most he’d ever admitted out loud. “You must know.”

The silence stretched on and on, this time. Anathema was still refusing to look at him, seemingly fascinated with the rickety chairs that fenced in the kitchenette’s stained little table.

(No one really used them. Both the chairs and the table seemed to be coated with some greasy film that turned the idea of sitting down and actually holding position without sliding onto the floor into some sort of physical impossibility.)

When Anathema finally opened her mouth again, Crowley regretted every single word he’d said to bring them both to this moment. And then some.

“Aziraphale went through a bad breakup, not very long ago. He wasn’t ready to date again.”

_The bitten one._

Crowley had been right all along.

He felt something constrict into his chest, squeezing his stomach into a knot. He’d been there before. It was an old, familiar song, a song of which he knew every note, every word, as deeply and intimately as he knew his own heartache.

Pathetic, foolish Crowley. Always back for another kick. So eager, so desperate.

Had Aziraphale been thinking about that ex of his the entire time they’d been together? Crowley couldn’t help but wonder. He wondered if Aziraphale had taken Crowley to every place they had used to go to together, if he’d sat there looking at Crowley and seeing someone else. If every joke they’d shared had been a reminder. If Aziraphale had pulled up Crowley’s chair and wished he’d been someone else.

It was too much. Too raw. Crowley could feel the stab into his heart, could feel his skin bleeding.

He’d already thought as much, but it was different to know for a fact. To be certain. There was no more wiggle room, no more reasonable doubt. No more wondering whether, perhaps, Aziraphale’s breakup had been a mutual thing, or even better–Aziraphale had been the one to cut the other loose.

Crowley, deep down, had always known. He’d read the way Aziraphale darkened at times, the stammering, the uneasiness, he’d taken all in and dismissed it, because it was easier that way. Easier than thinking he’d lost before he even began, easier than resigning to his heartbreak. He’d got relaxed, complacent. He’d got hopeful. And now he was paying the price.

“How long ago?” he asked, after a long, fragile silence. He could feel Anathema’s eyes on him, but he didn’t want to look. He didn’t want to know what he’d find in them. Perhaps more pity.

The thought brought him back to the night before, to the way Aziraphale had forced himself to invite Crowley in. He hadn’t really wanted to, he hadn’t been ready for it, but he would’ve still given a helping hand to the miserable sod he was stuck with. Aziraphale was a sporty fellow, nothing to say about that.

Crowley felt the bile rise into his throat.

“A year,” Anathema answered, a little defensively, as though there was something Crowley would argue about in such a simple statement. “It’s not long. Not if you got brokenhearted in the process.”

It was getting better and better. Crowley was a firm believer in rebound sex, so he didn’t really get the whole mourning period, but he’d bet he’d get a taste of it sooner rather than later. He wasn’t sure he could get rid of Aziraphale the way he’d got rid of other people. He wasn’t sure he wanted to fuck anyone else. He wasn’t even sure he _wanted_ to get over him.

What a sad fucker he was.

“I see,” Crowley said, voice even and hollow. He did see. That was why pretending they’d been together for a year had been a Very Bad Idea that had got Aziraphale all gloomy. Of course they couldn’t. Six months was probably a reasonable mourning period for Aziraphale’s family to believe.

It all made sense, now.

“Crowley.”

There was something odd in Anathema’s voice, something that, coming from someone else, would’ve been almost _sweet_. But since it was Anathema, Crowley was pretty sure he was mistaken. He tilted up his head, though, taking her in.

The gentleness in her eyes was unendurable.

“This has nothing to do with you,” she repeated, soft and slow.

Crowley recoiled a little, as if he’d been slapped. He knew that. He knew that it was none of his business, that he had no right whatsoever over Aziraphale’s private life. Yet, it hurt to hear it. But he needed the reminder, and Anathema had been so gentle in dishing it out. He didn’t deserve her.

“I know,” he said. He knocked back whatever was left of his coffee and put the mug in the dishwasher. “Thanks for the coffee, Anathema. Got some work to do.”

He burst out of the kitchen like a bat out of hell, not wanting to see the sympathy on her face. He couldn’t handle compassion, not right now.

_This has nothing to do with you_.

None of his business. Crowley had got the message all right.

He never stopped to think that, perhaps, Anathema had not meant it quite that way.

* * *

Crowley got rather spectacularly drunk, that night. He got started in one of his favourite spots in Chelsea right after work, going through several shots of single malt in the space of an hour, then bought a bottle of bourbon in a local store and tottered back to his car before getting too drunk to drive her safely (within reason, at least) back home.

After he managed to park her without accidents, he slinked back into his apartment with his bottle safely tucked under his arm and proceeded to drain almost the entire thing. He started crying over _The Great British Bake Off_ halfway through, hugged drunkenly a few of his potted plants for moral support, then sat on the floor and sobbed so loudly that he’d be amazed, the day after, to know that no one had called the police on him. Then, he promptly passed out where he was, without even bothering to crawl to bed. He woke at three in the morning almost frozen to death, with a full bladder, a sore ass from the hard wooden beams and a mouth as dry as blotting paper. At some time during the night, while he’d been out cold, he’d also lost his grip on the open bottle, and he slapped his hand into a puddle of bourbon as he tried to get back to his feet. The realisation made him grimace to himself, even through the brewing hangover. That was going to ruin the hardwood, and there would be hell to pay to fix the damage. Crowley contemplated the issue for a moment as he stared at his wet hand, which looked almost dry in the soft, low lights, then took the shirt off his back and used it to mop the spillage. There was probably a very good reason he shouldn’t have done that, but right then and there he couldn’t remember what it was, or think of any solution that better fit his problem. He just wanted to fix it and drop again into blessed oblivion.

After the spillage had been dealt with, Crowley struggled back on his feet and tottered towards the bathroom, dropping the sodden shirt into the sink before taking the longest piss of his life and then staggering into his bedroom. He fell on the bed face first, feet dangling out, with barely enough wherewithal left to get halfway under the covers, and passed out again without a single thought left for anything, or anyone.

He dreamt of a meadow with an old apple tree. Aziraphale was sitting on the new grass, shiny and soft between the gnarled roots, and was looking up at him. The light filtering through the branches dappled his fair skin in gold, forcing him to squint his blue eyes.

_Won’t you sit down with me, my dear?_ Aziraphale asked, his voice reedy and far-away, like a gust of wind. _Sit, and rest for a while. Aren’t you tired?_

Crowley was. He was so tired that his head hurt, his legs had turned to lead, his arms were aching. He was so tired he felt like crying.

_My poor, weary love._

Aziraphale reached out with both hands, and Crowley was shuddering as he let himself fall into his embrace, where it was warm and dark and silent.

Such a silence, he thought, could rewrite the world.

* * *

The morning after, Crowley woke to a flat that looked like it had barely survived a rave party. There was a dirty shirt that stank of cheap whisky in the bathroom sink, an almost-empty open bottle of bourbon that had rolled to the front door in an obvious attempt to escape the madness, a stain on the woodwork that would swallow whole everything he’d managed to save in the last six months, the telly still on, a pair of jeans draped on the ansaphone in the foyer, a few potted plant in very precarious balance on their shelves, soil sprinkled like sugar powder all over the greenery floor, the spray bottle stashed away in one of the kitchen cupboard, and an almost overpowering stench of alcohol pervading the entire place. Most of it, Crowley realised, was coming straight from him.

He took a tentative sniff at himself, and almost recoiled in disgust. He smelled like a garbage truck, and he probably looked like one. His head was pounding, his bladder felt like it was about to explode, his throat was so parched it ached and every single muscle in his body was protesting at the unfair treatment it had been subjected to. For a long moment, too confused and dejected to do anything constructive, Crowley merely stood in the middle of his apartment and thought hard about the next steps he needed to take.

He needed to get to work, first of all. As much as he hated his job, it was still the one and only thing that paid his bills. So, he’d better start from there. He could leave everything else to the following day, but getting presentable and showing up to work were paramount. A shower, therefore, was what he should begin with.

Crowley was in such a state that he felt inordinately proud of himself for that outstanding bit of planning. And that was just as well, since it took him twice as long as usual to get himself ready. His body seemed just unwilling to cooperate, after what he’d been made to suffer the night before, and Crowley almost threw up when he took out of the fridge some pizza leftovers to get something in his stomach. He’d normally skip breakfast, but his body didn’t seem amenable to that option, and he had the needling suspicion that painkillers without food would also not be tolerated that morning. So, he warmed up the unappetizing slice, chewed it with grim determination while swallowing down the nausea, and topped it up with a healthy dose of painkillers. Then, with a throbbing head and clumsy feet, he got to his car and drove to work.

A glance was all it took for Anathema to guess what he’d got himself into. He’d known that would happen, which was why he’d tried to avoid her at the best of his abilities, but he wasn’t exactly at his brightest that morning. He had a desk he eventually had to get back to, after all, and Anathema could be as relentless as a copper when she wanted. She found him not one hour later, nursing his hangover in the kitchenette.

She didn’t say anything. She merely shook her head at him, then proceeded to prepare a fresh pot of coffee. Crowley was so grateful he almost felt like crying again. He didn’t, but in his hungover state it was a close thing.

Two hours later, Aziraphale called him. Crowley’s headache had subsided a little, but he still felt off, slow and ungainly like a tanker. Every movement required incommensurable effort, and he could’ve sworn that somebody had swirled his brain out of his nose and replaced it with cotton. His ringing phone didn’t exactly find him in a chatty mood. He took an annoyed peek at the screen to see who was bothering him that particularly shite morning, and stared uncomprehendingly at the ‘Aziraphale’ on the display.

(He had saved the number straight after their not-date at the Japanese restaurant, and had been fighting the embarrassing temptation to change it into ‘Angel’ since they had settled for the pet name. He’d succeeded so far, but he knew it was just a matter of time. He was lucky he liked Aziraphale’s name almost as much as his pet name.)

Crowley accepted the call with no idea of what was going to come out of it. No amount of alcohol could make him forget how their last encounter had ended, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to face another excruciatingly uncomfortable moment while being so hungover.

“Er. Hello?” he rasped.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale’s voice hadn’t been particularly loud, but it shot through Crowley’s tortured brain like a flaming arrow. He winced, as Aziraphale tentatively added: “How are you, my dear boy? I wanted to call you before, but... well, I didn’t want to be a bother.”

Crowley almost scoffed into the phone. He didn’t need an excuse so old it was practically falling apart. If Aziraphale didn’t want to talk to him, he didn’t need to justify himself. Hell, Crowley could even go as far as sympathising with him. After their last disastrous dinner, he wouldn’t have wanted to hear from himself either.

“’m fine,” he answered, more harshly than he’d intended. “Just peachy. What about you?”

That got him a long silence. Crowley winced. Aziraphale didn’t have to call him at all, but he had, and didn’t deserve to be barked at. Crowley would perfectly understand if Aziraphale didn’t call again.

“I’m quite good,” the man eventually answered, tentative and a little cold. Crowley would’ve smacked himself in the head, if that hadn’t sounded rather odd through the line. “I was wondering if you were still up for dinner tonight.”

Crowley swore silently in his head. He’d completely forgotten about their dinner, and the idea of eating anything, anything at all, made Crowley’s stomach twist in his belly. Yet, he would’ve swallowed stones if that had meant being with Aziraphale. Cancelling never even entered his mind.

“Of course, angel,” he said, trying for a gentler, softer voice. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

The tone did the trick.

“Oh, wonderful,” Aziraphale answered, still a little guarded, but way warmer than before. “I wasn’t sure you wouldn’t change your mind, after... well. What do you think about Indian food?”

“I think it sounds great,” Crowley lied. He liked Indian food just fine, just not right then and there. But he refused to let his stomach make decisions for him.

“I’m glad you think so, my dear,” Aziraphale cooed. He was quickly reverting to his usual self, and Crowley was desperately pleased with that. “I made a reservation for seven o’clock. Do you have pen and paper nearby? I’ll give you the address.”

Crowley dutifully jotted it down. His head was still pounding, but hearing Aziraphale’s voice helped. As pathetic as that sounded.

“I’ll see you tonight, my dear,” Aziraphale said, and it felt like a soft touch on bare skin. Crowley barely contained a sigh.

“Sure thing, angel.”

The line went dead. Crowley scrubbed his face, and then realised he wasn’t even sure what he was wearing at that precise moment. He looked down, and was horrified to find out that he was clad in faded jeans and a black turtleneck that had seen better days. Not that he could blame his hungover self–after a whole bottle of bourbon and almost an entire bottle of scotch, it was a miracle he’d managed to drag himself to work in anything more challenging than his underwear. But it would be mortifying to show up for a (not-)date so shabbily dressed.

Crowley sighed. He could always run out and buy something for the occasion, but he didn’t want to be late, and he preferred clothes that he had chosen carefully, if not exactly with a date in mind, to something he’d picked in a rush. Faded jeans and turtleneck would have to do. He trusted himself to make them work, somehow.

His hair, of course, was another matter.

After half an hour shut in the bathroom, and a whole plethora of hissed expletives and explicit threat to his unruly hair, Crowley decided that he looked the best he could. Which meant that he still looked like something recently discharged by a dustcart, but at least he smelt better than he had that morning, which he counted as an improvement. Everything else he had little to no power to change, so he could only hope he wouldn’t botch the evening overly much and drive Aziraphale away for good. He’d been doing rather well in that regard, as of late, and it’d be best to change course as soon as possible.

Crowley was ten minutes early, as he jogged his way from the parking lot to the Indian restaurant where he was supposed to meet with Aziraphale. It was something of an unprecedented miracle, if Crowley had to be honest. He wasn’t great at being punctual, and early was simply not in his vocabulary. But for the first time since the beginning of their acquaintance, Crowley was there before Aziraphale, and he got to experience firsthand what was like waiting for somebody to arrive.

It sucked.

He was fidgeting with his phone, bored out of his mind and wondering a little alarmingly whether he was about to be stood up, when he spotted Aziraphale serenely strolling in his direction. Seeing him again, with that absentminded smile on his lips and those bright eyes lazily taking in his surroundings, was incomprehensibly, atrociously good. It hit him hard, like a blow in the guts, and left him reeling.

(All right, perhaps his hungover state was precipitating things a little, but had it ever been _this_ good, the mere sight of someone?

It was a question whose answer Crowley knew all too well, and it terrified him.)

Aziraphale seemed a little taken aback by the sight of Crowley waiting for him on the curb, possibly looking like a twit, but the surprise quickly gave way to a warm, sunny kind of smile. It made the fine lines at the corners of his eyes crinkle, and transformed his face into something so bright and so beautiful that Crowley could do nothing but stand there and hope that such blaze would not burn his blackened heart. He wanted to frame Aziraphale’s cheeks between his palms with such a violent yearning that it burnt through him, ruthless and brutal and ravenous.

“Hello there, dear boy,” Aziraphale said, looking up at him. “You’re early.”

He sounded inordinately pleased, as though Crowley had managed some sort of unprecedented feat. The approval in his voice trailed down Crowley’s back like a shiver, crackling along his spine.

That voice. Crowley could not even begin to understand the power that that voice held over him. It was indescribable, incomprehensible. Ineffable.

He swallowed, throat clinking at the spasms of muscles. The need to reach out, to touch, to feel the grounding weight of Aziraphale’s flesh was unbearable. His skin ached so much it felt like it would spontaneously melt straight off his bones.

“Hello, angel.”

Aziraphale stood there a little longer, saying nothing–just observing him with keen eyes, in silence.

“Let’s go inside,” Aziraphale eventually suggested, just when the moment was about to become too charged to be allowed to continue. Crowley blinked, as if he’d been surfacing from a deep sleep, and followed him inside.

He was so focused on Aziraphale that the restaurant seemed to hover just at the periphery of his attention, like the flickering light of a candle. Crowley was barely aware it was warm, painted in some sort of deep brownish red, and moderately full of people. A waiter in black led them to a corner table, and Aziraphale stood by one of the chairs, pulling it up and helping Crowley to sit down. He hadn’t done that since their first dinner together. Crowley could’ve almost sworn he’d felt the ghost-touch of Aziraphale’s fingers on his shoulders, as the man stepped away.

“What are you in the mood for, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, as they both looked at their menus.

Crowley shrugged. He was still feeling a little off, but his stomach had settled during the day, and even if eating held a pretty low place on his list of priorities, he didn’t feel like he was about to throw up his last Christmas dinner anymore.

“Dunno. Something light.” It was out of his mouth before he could think it through. “Drank a little too much yesterday.”

Aziraphale looked at him with a lifted brow. Crowley did his best not to squirm. It wasn’t like Aziraphale was a teetotal, after all, and Crowley had every right to get pissed whenever he liked.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, reverting his attention to the menu he was holding. His voice sounded oddly detached. “Wild night?”

Crowley scoffed.

“Nah, just got pissed alone in my flat, like an idiot.”

Crowley realised belatedly that the truth would help him exactly nothing in his attempt to show Aziraphale that he wasn’t a pathetic git, but, once again, it was out of his mouth before he could do anything about it. Crowley decided to blame it all on some residual headache and the last dredges of his hangover.

Aziraphale, however, smiled one of his bright smiles at him, and Crowley forgot all about why telling the truth was such a bad idea.

“Nothing wrong with indulging from time to time, my dear boy. But you might want to avoid heavy food tonight.” A pause, and a sharp look that was a little incongruous on Aziraphale’s soft, gentle face. “May I order for you?”

Crowley shrugged again.

“’s not like you’ve never done it before.”

“And I got chided for it, if I remember correctly,” Aziraphale chuckled, rumbling and relaxed, though the same sharpness was still lingering in his eyes. “So, this time I’m asking. May I?”

Crowley blinked. He felt like they were having an entirely different conversation, but he wasn’t too sure about what kind of conversation that was.

“Yeah, sure.”

Aziraphale looked inordinately pleased with that answer, and something warm and sticky unfurled in Crowley’s chest. He watched wordlessly as Aziraphale finished to peruse the menu, then ordered chicken soup and crab biryani for Crowley and bhaji samosa and butter chicken for himself. Aziraphale hesitated when the time came to order their drinks, but eventually settled on a banana shake for Crowley and Indian tea for himself. Crowley protested that he could handle alcohol, and certainly could handle the sight of Aziraphale drinking, but Aziraphale refused to listen.

“You don’t need more alcohol in your system,” he firmly countered, “and I’d rather not drink alone. Tea works just fine.”

Crowley didn’t particularly appreciate the idea of being coddled, but he had given Aziraphale permission to order for him, and in truth he was quite warmed by that kind of care. They chattered a little about nothing in particular, as they waited for their food. The subject of their previous encounter was never touched, much to Crowley’s relief, and he was incredibly grateful to Aziraphale for it. The last thing he wanted was to remember how badly he’d fucked things up, or what had come after. He wanted to scrub the entire evening off his mind and never have to linger on it again.

Aziraphale’s choice of food turned out to be the perfect one, and what was left of Crowley’s hangover gradually faded as their evening rolled by. Crowley felt the tension that had been building in the past two days slide away, and refused to let himself think about that mysterious ex who had so thoroughly ruined his Thursday. Aziraphale seemed quite content to be with Crowley, and Crowley wasn’t going to allow a tosser he’d never even met to spoil their evening.

Everything seemed to be going a little too well, actually, which was why Crowley wasn’t particularly surprised to get kicked in the arse just before dessert.

“I wanted to talk to you about something, actually,” Aziraphale dropped without warning, just when Crowley was truly growing comfortable. “It’s about next week.”

Crowley straightened up, suddenly alert. He already knew by Aziraphale’s tone that that wasn’t going to be good.

“Oh?”

“I won’t be around much,” Aziraphale explained, looking a little fidgety. “I’m going to work during the weekend, since I’m taking the next off, and I have to sort out a few things before the wedding. I thought... I hoped it’d be all right for you to pick me up on Friday, if you were still of the same mind about it.”

Crowley frowned. Of course he was. Why would Aziraphale ever think he wasn’t?

“Sure thing, angel. I’ll come and pick you up on Friday. What time do you want to leave?”

“It’s a two-hour drive, so I’d say around four, if that’s not too early for you.” Aziraphale was wringing his hands. “The last thing I want is to cause you problems at work, my dear. If you can’t, you only have to say so. We could reschedule. My siblings will understand, if we won’t be able to have dinner with them.”

Crowley wondered briefly whether it wasn’t _Aziraphale_ who didn’t really want to have dinner with his siblings, but he reluctantly discharged it. Knowing him, Aziraphale could just as easily be saying the truth.

“Don’t think it’ll be a problem,” he said, truthfully. “I’ll talk to Beelzebub, spin things around a bit. I’ll be there in time.” A pause, as Aziraphale’s words finally sank in. “If not, I’ll give you a call, I guess.”

Next Friday, Aziraphale had said. That was a week from then. Crowley wasn’t going to see Aziraphale for an entire week.

The thought was a gloomy one.

(Pathetic, desperate Crowley.)

Aziraphale was peering at his face, clearly searching for something. Crowley smiled at him, banishing the sulkiness from his thoughts. It’d never do to let Aziraphale know what sort of needy bastard Crowley actually was.

“That would... well. That would be wondrous of you, though I hope it won’t inconvenience you overly much.”

Crowley shrugged.

“No inconveniences here, angel. If he doesn’t like it, Beelzebub will simply have to suck it up.”

Aziraphale offered him a distracted little smile, his gaze still lingering on Crowley’s face. He seemed to be talking himself into something, or to be making some sort of calculations into his mind.

“I thought... I thought I could call you perhaps, later next week. To check if everything is all right.” He hesitated. “If, well, if I’m not bothering you, that is.”

Crowley was a little taken aback by Aziraphale’s words. Was that about what had happened during their previous meeting? Was Aziraphale _checking up_ on him? It was a depressing thought, Aziraphale calling him only out of concern. But it was still Aziraphale calling him, it was still hearing his voice after not seeing him for a _week_.

(Crowley knew he was blowing this thing out of proportion, that he was being clingy, but he couldn’t stop yearning, he couldn’t stop _wanting_.

Crowley wanted, and wanted, and wanted. One day, that want would devour him until there would be nothing left.)

There was no other way Crowley could have answered him, really.

“You can call me any time you want, angel. That’s what you got my number for.” He broke it off, thought it over. “You could... tell me how those preparations for the wedding are coming along, if you wanted.”

Aziraphale smiled, bright and sickly sweet, and Crowley thought that those teeth would rend his heart out of his chest someday soon.

“I would love to, my dear.”

Crowley ducked his head, pretending to be fascinated by something just over Aziraphale’s shoulder. The waiter, coming back with the dessert from exactly that direction, felt like a miracle.

“Your ras gula is on its way, angel,” Crowley smirked, and the conversation shifted to less charged topics, as their evening came to a close.

It took them an additional hour to leave the table, and even their waiter at some point gave up on trying to urge them to get out with pointed questions about whether they wanted something else. Aziraphale was the first to get on his feet.

“I think we’ve overstayed our welcome,” he stage-whispered, with a slightly mischievous smirk painted upon his face. He’d insisted to get both check and gratuities, and nothing Crowley had told him had made him change his mind. Aziraphale was a stubborn bastard when he wanted, nothing to say about that.

Crowley merely chuckled in reply, standing up. He’d forgotten completely about his not-exactly-stellar attire, but he was reminded of it quite brutally as Aziraphale stopped fidgeting with his gloves to stare at him. Crowley felt the pressure of that gaze slip from his face to his shoulders, his chest, and lower, igniting his skin like a live wire. He felt like he was being electrocuted.

“You look... different,” Aziraphale remarked, eyes slowly climbing up to his face. “But it suits you.”

Crowley scoffed. He was a little unsettled, actually, but it wouldn’t do to let it show.

“You’re looking at hungover Crowley, I’m afraid. Hungover Crowley doesn’t care if he’s dressed like a hobo.”

“Hm.” Aziraphale seemed to consider things for a moment, then stepped closer. And closer. Before Crowley knew it, Aziraphale was smoothing a hand down his chest. “It’s nothing as dramatic as that. Just... a little softer around the edges, I think. I actually find it rather fetching.”

Crowley thought his heart would explode. He wondered if Aziraphale could feel it, trying to burst its way through his sternum, to reach Aziraphale’s palm. He stood straight and unmoving, like a startled deer.

Aziraphale gazed up at him from where he stood, close enough that Crowley could smell his cologne, with a hand pressed over Crowley’s heart. His eyes looked bright and blue and huge. Crowley wondered if there was a dusting of pink on his cheek. It was hard to tell, with his blasted sunglasses in the way.

The moment seemed to last forever, yet Crowley nearly whimpered when Aziraphale took his hand away. It took everything he got not to reach out and catch it, bring it back to his body, his skin.

(_Please, touch me. Pleasepleaspleasepleaseplease._)

“Anyway,” Aziraphale said firmly. “We’d better go.”

Crowley followed him without a word, too stunned to put together anything resembling cogent speech. He could still hear the thumping of his wild heart, feel the phantom pain of its rabid slamming against his ribcage. His skin was aching, and breathing came out wrong, in a way. Aziraphale had slipped his deerskin gloves over his hands, and Crowley flexed his fingers, barely restraining himself from making a grab for one. His head was spinning. He realised quite belatedly (and with unspeakable horror) that he wasn’t quite soft in his pants anymore. He could only thank his tight jeans and long coat that he wasn’t making a spectacle of himself.

Aziraphale was happily chattering by himself, by the time they reached Crowley’s car. Crowley unlocked it and slipped inside, followed quite closely by Aziraphale. The other man was busy with the recounting of some prophecy book he’d just bought for his collection, and he barely paused when Crowley drove them out into traffic. Crowley always tried to drive as sedately as humanly possible with Aziraphale onboard, but the man seemed to have acclimatised himself to Crowley’s brand of driving rather quickly, if the lack of screaming was any indication.

It was about ten in the evening when Crowley slowly rolled up to Aziraphale’s building block. Aziraphale looked bewildered for a moment, as the Bentley came to a halt, but he quickly recovered when he recognised his house.

“Oh,” he said, sounding almost disappointed. “We’re here already.”

“Yeah, angel,” Crowley answered, stating the obvious. “We’re here.”

Aziraphale hummed under his breath, looking at Crowley with that unnerving stare of his. Crowley had absolutely no idea what was going on in his head, but he tried his best not to squirm under that steady gaze.

“I guess I’d better go,” Aziraphale eventually commented. “I’ll see you on Friday.”

Then, without even the grace to warn him beforehand, Aziraphale placed his palm against Crowley’s hand, resting idly on the steering wheel.

“Goodnight, dear boy.”

Crowley could only stare back at him, mouth opening and closing without a single sound coming out of it.

“Goodnight, angel,” he eventually managed to croak out. Aziraphale’s hand was just as warm as he remembered, even through the deerskin of his gloves. He wondered wildly what that naked hand would feel like, slipping under his clothes, curling around his sharp hipbones, tracing the hard, straight lines of his torso. Thumbing his navel, playing with his nipples. Fisting his cock.

It was right in the middle of that riveting train of thought that Aziraphale took his hand away. Crowley felt cold, all of a sudden, yet he could do nothing but watch, as Aziraphale slid out of his car and picked his way unhurriedly to his building block. Crowley watched him rummage into his pockets for the keys, and then slide them into the keyhole, opening the door.

Aziraphale turned, just before going inside. He looked straight at Crowley, knowing that Crowley had stayed there to watch him go, like the hopeful idiot that he was. He looked straight at him, and smiled. A slow, spreading kind of smile. Then he was inside, the door locking behind him.

Crowley’s forehead hit the steering wheel.

Time to go home, he supposed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear to you, we _will_ get to the blasted wedding, at some point.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there, lovely people!  
Just a couple of very quick things before we start:  
First of all, thank you so very much as usual for your love. It blows me away every time. And if it’s taking me some time to answer your comments, please know that they’re as always the highlight of my day, and I _will_ answer to each and every one of you. It might take me a bit longer than usual, but I will <3  
Secondly, after some debating I’ve decided to do without a publishing schedule for this story. That means that I’ll most likely update once a week, but which story I will update (_Rough enough for love_ or _The Art of Letting Go_) will be decided upon slightly more whimsical bases. I hope it won’t be too off-putting, but it was getting a bit rough switching focus from one story to the other every week. I’ll do my very best to keep you appraised on my Twitter about which story I’m working on.  
That said, I hope you’ll enjoy the chapter! <3

Crowley wasn’t particularly surprised, when the following week turned out to be just as depressing as he’d thought it was going to be.

He missed Aziraphale obscenely. There was no other word for it. He’d got so used to seeing him on a regular basis that such a long stretch of time without even a glimpse of his bright smile seemed to last forever. He was bored during the weekend, and in a proper shite mood at work. London had been granted a bout of exceptionally nice weather on Sunday, but there was really no point in going out for a walk without Aziraphale laughing at his side, bright and comforting and full of serene wonder, as he stopped to leave some spare change to every single street artist they came across. He’d linger to listen to a violinist with the same rapture with which he’d stare at the living statue of an angel, as though he was sitting in a high-end theatre instead of standing on the gravel path of St. James’s Park, and Crowley would soak in that distilled sense of awe just like he’d drink in the astounding calm that Aziraphale seemed to give off like a heat wave. Or he’d try his best not to laugh at Aziraphale’s endless tirades against joggers, who in his opinion deserved a special circle in hell, especially the ones who kept trying to run him down as he lingered to admire the swans.

No, there was no point in going _anywhere_ without Aziraphale. Crowley might just as well stay home to watch reruns on the telly and sulk, like the overgrown teen with a crush that he was.

Aziraphale called him on Monday evening. Crowley hadn’t expected him to, and was pathetically pleased to hear his voice, warm and a little sheepish, as though Aziraphale wasn’t sure whether Crowley would welcome his call or not. He asked twice if he was bothering him, and Crowley was so charmed that he didn’t even think of lying about the myriad of things he was supposed to be doing. He was sprawled on the couch bored out of his mind, and told Aziraphale just that. Aziraphale chuckled at his grumbling, low and purring in a way that made Crowley’s hairs stand on end, and for a moment something lingered, something charged and a little wicked, before fading into the background when neither of them made a move to acknowledge it. They ended up chattering about work, instead, and Aziraphale’s wedding gift for his sister that apparently was coming along nicely.

(It was a Victorian cabinet, of all things, an handmade antique that Aziraphale had found auctioned God knew where and promptly decided it’d make the perfect wedding gift for one of his wanker elitist siblings. Crowley had been too afraid to ask exactly how much Aziraphale had paid for that monstrosity, but he could make an educated guess, and wasn’t too sure he wanted to know how close to the mark he’d come.)

That evening, Crowley wanked himself to oblivion picturing Aziraphale pouring instructions into his ear from miles away, asking him to lower his jeans just enough to free his poor suffering cock and stroke himself to climax. Crowley came into his fist with a dry finger pressed awkwardly against his hole as he heaved and panted like he’d run a marathon, shuddering all over. He cleaned himself up like in a dream, prickling skin still raised in goosebumps, aching and wired-up as though he hadn’t just come so hard he’d thought he’d have a heart-attack. He dragged himself into the shower only to realise that he was half-hard again, and had another wank at the thought of fucking Aziraphale under the hot spray, wrapping his slightly taller form around Aziraphale’s sturdier body like a steel trap and using his arms and hands and cock to keep him impossibly close, plastered so tightly against his front that he could never escape his grip. Crowley came in weak spurts against the tiles, then collapsed on the wet floor in a panting bundle. He barely had the wherewithal left to dry himself off and crawl to bed, where he promptly passed out.

Come Wednesday, his mood had spiralled so low that even Anathema was starting to give him side-looks. Eventually, she lured him into the kitchenette with the promise of a fresh pot of coffee and prodded at him like she would at a particularly stubborn cow until she got what she wanted out of him.

“I’m bored, alright?” Crowley grumbled, deciding that half a truth might be better to get her off his case than radio silence. He _was_ bored, after all. He’d even caved and decided on a whim to open that Netflix account he’d been considering for a while, though the new toy had worked only marginally to distract him. “Meeting with Aziraphale so often has spoiled me. Now he’s busy and I have too much time on my hands.”

Anathema stared at him as though he’d grown another head.

“So, go out. You’re a grown man; you don’t need Aziraphale to hold your hand.”

Crowley didn’t know how to tell her that going out alone was not the same thing, not by a long shot. And that if Aziraphale wanted to hold his hand, he wouldn’t exactly put up a fight.

(The whole thing was so pathetic. Everything Crowley had ever been wanted nothing more than to dig a hole into the ground and hide there forever, but everything Crowley was right now didn’t give a toss about any of that too-cool-for-school crap. He craved Aziraphale the way an addict craved their high, shamelessly and mindlessly and overpoweringly.)

“That’s not the point,” he mumbled, when it was clear that Anathema wouldn’t be appeased by silence.

That earned him a rather pointed, incredulous look.

“You miss him.”

It wasn’t a question.

Crowley shrugged.

“He’s good company, ‘s all.”

(Not really lying, there. Not the entire truth, not by a long shot, but not a lie either. Aziraphale was _excellent_ company, amongst all the other things.)

Anathema’s stare never wavered. She didn’t even blink.

“You. _Miss_. Him,” she repeated, loud and clear. Crowley shrugged again, taking a sip of his coffee as though that was old news, nothing to write home about. “Are you going to say it, or should I?”

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” Crowley tried, in a last ditch effort to survive the conversation unscathed.

Anathema scoffed.

“You like him,” she declared, acerbic and final, daring him to deny it.

Crowley rolled his eyes.

“_Like_ him? This isn’t secondary school, you know.”

“You could’ve fooled me.”

Crowley tried a withering glance, but Anathema seemed inconveniently unimpressed with the display.

“Listen,” she sighed eventually, when it became clear that Crowley wasn’t going to give ground. “You’ve already told me as much. Not in so many words, perhaps, but you have. Just, admit it. Out loud. It will be good for you.”

“For _me_?”

“Yes, for you.” Anathema regarded him with a lifted brow. “I already know you got something going on with Aziraphale, whatever that is. I know that it’s powerful enough to get you mood swings that would make a thirteen-year-old proud. I know that you miss him. Just admit to it, so that you can finally whine at me the way I know you’ve been _dying_ to.”

“I do not whine,” Crowley rebutted, tart and a little offended.

“That’s a huge and pretty inaccurate statement,” Anathema serenely replied, “and don’t try to change the subject. You have a crush. It’s ok. I get it, even. Aziraphale is very lovable. Everyone likes him.”

And wasn’t that just what Crowley needed to hear.

“Everyone?” he grumbled, trying to sound casual, only to be met with the most blatant knowing smirk he’d ever seen on anyone.

“Oh,” Anathema exhaled, looking for all it was worth like she’d won the lottery. “A little jealous, aren’t we?”

Perhaps that _was_ secondary school, after all.

“Just... shut up,” Crowley grumbled, trying to salvage what was left of his dignity. “And yes, alright. I might be... interested. Are you happy now?”

“Not exactly what I wanted to hear, but close enough.” A small pause, as Anathema stared at him with shrewd eyes. “Does he know?”

Crowley frowned.

_Did_ he know?

Crowley wasn’t sure. He hadn’t _said_ anything, of course, but his interest wasn’t exactly cryptic to read, and Aziraphale was a smart man. Perhaps he suspected. But then, why say nothing, if that interest was reciprocated?

The answer was pretty obvious. And it probably had everything to do with that ex of his.

Crowley’s usual luck.

“Dunno,” he said, when he remembered that Anathema was waiting for an answer. “Don’t think so.”

“Maybe you should tell him,” Anathema prodded. “In the interest of pushing things forward.”

That was quite enough. Crowley drained his coffee in one go and put his dirty mug in the washing machine.

“There is nothing to push forward,” he said, and was startled to realise how bitter he sounded. “You said so yourself. He’s not ready to date. Still hung up on that ex of his, I guess.”

He tried to step out of the kitchenette, but Anathema quickly slipped between him and the door, holding out a hand in front of her.

“I’ve never said _anything_ about him being hung up on his ex,” she declared, clear and urgent, “and I said _was_. He _wasn’t_ ready to date.” She stared at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. “What exactly do you think you’ve been doing so far?”

Crowley scoffed.

“Please. We’ve been hanging out, _strictly as friends_, if I remember correctly. Isn’t that how Aziraphale put it?”

“Yes, as if anyone would believe _that_,” Anathema huffed. “Aziraphale is ridiculous. Which is just as well, because _you_ are ridiculous, too. The best match I could come up with.”

Crowley sighed.

“Don’t you have work to do?”

“I do,” Anathema declared, lifting her chin superciliously. “And I am doing it, right now.”

Crowley scoffed, but this time Anathema didn’t try to stop him, as he slipped out of the door.

“Just talk to him, for Christ’s sake,” Anathema shouted after him.

Crowley pretended not to hear her.

* * *

Crowley did talk to Aziraphale. He talked to him that very evening, and the evening after. They talked about Aziraphale’s wedding gift, which apparently had come quite nicely out of the necessary restoration works, and about his meticulous research for a delivery service that wouldn’t damage the precious woodwork. They talked about the new batch of books Aziraphale’s library had received the past week, and the preparations they’d been making for the busy times ahead, when the Christmas holidays and the first exam session of the year would be coming nearer and hordes of terrified students would invade Aziraphale’s sanctuary to get everything done before heading home. They talked a little about Crowley’s crazy interview with a woman who thought her cat was Churchill reincarnated, and aptly nicknamed him Colonel Fuzzyboots in what she believed to be a clever tribute to his military career. Aziraphale had laughed so hard that Crowley had half-expected to hear him fall out of his chair. What they did _not_ talk about were their dates, or not-dates, or whatever they were. They also didn’t talk about the fact that Aziraphale had called Crowley twice in as many days, sounding less and less apologetic about it.

Crowley ended up wanking after every single call, ravenous and desperate. Aziraphale’s voice sounded honey-sweet over the phone, low and warm and feathery soft, like fingertips tracing his shuddering skin. Crowley couldn’t stop thinking about Aziraphale watching him, touching him, coaxing him to orgasm over and over as he spilled filthy endearments into his ear. Crowley fantasised about coming in Aziraphale’s fist, in his mouth, in his arse, on his face, his belly, his thighs, desperate and wrung-out, as Aziraphale dug bruises into his skin and whispered in his ear how extraordinary he was. Each orgasm left him quivering, aching with a hunger that was quickly turning into obsession. Crowley knew it was getting worse, and yet was utterly powerless to stop, to keep himself from spiralling down like an injured sparrow.

He wound up talking to Anathema about the phone calls. He hadn’t meant to. He was musing about the fact that it was Friday, which meant that he would finally see Aziraphale again that evening, and that vital piece of intelligence sort of slipped out of his mouth.

Anathema’s face was a sight to behold.

“So, you’re telling me that Aziraphale has called you every evening this week?” she asked, looking at him up and down.

Crowley scoffed. He was sitting at his desk, with Anathema looming over him. It was extremely easy to pretend he was very busy working at something on his computer, and keep her from taking a good look at his unguarded face.

“Not _every_ evening,” he countered, but it was a weak rebuttal and he knew it.

“I’m sorry, every evening aside from, when, Tuesday? Oh, yes, that makes a huge difference.”

“Don’t make such a big thing out of it,” Crowley grumbled. “They’re just phone calls. We still have some things to organise, you know.”

Even without looking directly at her Crowley could spot the incredulous look that Anathema was bestowing upon him.

“And how long exactly did these _business_ calls last? Just to be clear.”

More than one hour each. But Crowley wasn’t going to share _that_.

“As long as it took.”

Anathema sighed explosively. She had her hands planted on her hips and was shaking her head so fiercely that Crowley vaguely feared she’d unscrew it from her neck.

“Well, did you talk to him, at least?”

“A bit too often, according to you.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Anathema bit back, pointing a finger at him. “You also know what I’m talking about. Have you told him yet how you feel?”

“I feel like I’m in _Grange Hill_, right now,” Crowley muttered. “I told you, we talked about the wedding. It’s in two days, you know. Not a lot of time to prepare.”

“What on earth could you possibly have to prepare? You’re going there as a couple, you’re not staging a heist!”

“Yes, well. There will be questions, you know.”

“Like what, how many times a night you go at it?”

Crowley scoffed. It was oddly annoying to be at the receiving end of a filthy smirk.

“Like, stuff. _Normal_ stuff, you know, the kind of stuff no one would ever think about asking _you_, for example.”

Crowley ducked, and the paper clip that Anathema had thrown at him fell quite harmlessly onto the ground.

“Let’s hear about this normal stuff, then,” Anathema huffed.

Crowley shrugged.

“I don’t know. How we met, how long we’ve been dating, those sorts of things.”

“And?”

“The official version is that we met about six months ago in that coffee shop you’ve taken us the first time.”

Crowley could feel Anathema’s stare on him, but he wasn’t going to look up if it killed him. He pretended to read the same e-mail for the fifth time and hoped for a merciful god.

“_And_?”

“There is no _and_. That’s about it.”

“Are you seriously telling me that it took the two of you almost three weeks to come up with such an overabundance of details?”

Anathema’s voice was positively vicious.

“Well, we also had to get used to each other, you know, if we wanted to pull it off,” Crowley added, a little defensively. He risked a look, and was rewarded with a doubtful glare.

“Get used to each other,” Anathema repeated, slowly, as though she was trying the words in her mouth to find out how they tasted.

Crowley rolled his eyes.

“Apparently I came up to him and chatted him up, if that makes you feel any better.”

When the quick rebuttal he’d been waiting for didn’t come, he risked a look. Anathema was staring at him.

“And who came up with this stroke of genius?” she asked, strangely pointed.

Crowley shrugged.

“It was Aziraphale’s idea.”

“Of course it was,” Anathema sighed under her breath. She shook her head. “Tectonic plates move faster than the two of you, I swear.”

Crowley was still thinking about a proper answer, when she turned on her heels and stomped away.

* * *

The Bentley rolled up to Aziraphale’s building block at four o’clock on the dot. Crowley felt inordinately proud of himself for being on time, and even the unpleasant conversation he’d had with Beelzebub wasn’t enough to ruin his good mood.

(Crowley’s grandma had been taken ill, apparently. Fifty years after her burial. He would’ve happily stayed a little longer, but he really, really had to dash and check on the poor woman.

This unforeseen emergency had made it rather apparent that Beelzebub was not particularly impressed with ailing grandmothers, but he was definitely partial to unsalaried overtime. Which meant that Crowley would pay off his lost hour and a half with interests, in the form of editing minor pieces and doing some ground work for free during the following week, but he’d surprised himself with how little he minded. Judging from the piercing look Beelzebub had casted his way, as though he wasn’t quite sure Crowley wasn’t actually planning on burning the entire place down over the weekend, he hadn’t been the only one.)

The afternoon was in full swing in Soho, and the street was full of people. More than one casted Crowley a reproachful glare for his admittedly unconventional parking choices, but he’d be gone as soon as Aziraphale showed up. He tapped his fingers on the steering well in time with the music blasting from the speakers. He’d been fidgeting the whole day, incapable of staying still at the idea of seeing Aziraphale again. He could feel the anticipation like a shiver down his spine, like a tingle in his fingertips.

It was ridiculous. He hadn’t seen the man for barely a week, for crying out loud, and they had spoken almost every single day. It was not enough to warrant that wrenching need, that shuddering euphoria that uncoiled in his chest like a rattlesnake. That wretched wedding was almost there, and what would he do, if after that Aziraphale decided he didn’t want to have Crowley so firmly planted into his life, after all? It was a possibility that Crowley had done his best to ignore, but one that he would have to take into consideration, sooner or later. If one week had done such a number on him, what would two weeks do? What about three? What about a month?

(_Clingy_.

The words trampled unbidden to the forefront of his mind, lush and sticky and poisonous.

_Needy_.

They rang hollow, like an empty house, like years passed by.

They echoed.)

No point in thinking about it, Crowley reasoned, forcing himself to concentrate on the music. He was going to see Aziraphale soon. Everything else he could deal with when it came to pass.

And _where_ was Aziraphale, anyway?

Crowley took a look at his expensive watch. It was five minutes past, and there was still no trace of him. It was the first time Aziraphale had been late since the beginning of their acquaintance, and Crowley felt a pang of something that he refused to call concern prickling at his skin. He considered the idea of honking his horn to attract Aziraphale’s attention, but eventually discharged it in favour of a more discreet phone call. He could be refined, if he tried really hard.

Aziraphale picked up at the third ring.

“Hello?”

“You ready, angel?” Crowley asked, doing his best to ignore how hollow and cold Aziraphale’s voice sounded. The intern of the car sounded eerily quiet without the blasting music. “I’m waiting downstairs.”

“Yes. I’m coming. Just a moment.”

The line went dead, without any goodbye or explanation of any sort. Crowley stared at the phone with something like astonishment. That was odd, to say the least. Crowley pocketed his phone and resumed his nervous tapping against the steering wheel. Something was going on, and Crowley was pretty sure that, whatever that was, it wasn’t anything good.

Aziraphale was fifteen minutes late, when he came out of his building block. He was dressed in his wool coat and fedora, with a huge travel bag in one hand and his iron-tipped umbrella in the other. Seeing him again, alive and solid and so enticingly close, hit Crowley in the chest like a closed fit. It’d been so long, so terribly, excruciatingly long. He wanted to bask in the glory of Aziraphale’s presence until that clashing need ebbed away, until his gnawing hunger was finally appeased.

Aziraphale had a grim expression on his face, but he tried to smile, when Crowley climbed out of the car to open the door for him. It looked so forced that Crowley’s cheeks ached in sympathy.

“Hello, dear,” Aziraphale greeted him, handing him his bag. Their fingers brushed for a moment, and Crowley treasured the touch just as much as he’d treasured all those that had come before. “I’m terribly sorry I’m late. Bits and bobs to fix. I should’ve planned the day a bit better, I suppose.”

There was something very wrong going on there. Aziraphale’s cheeks were paler than usual, and his eyes looked almost haunted. The quiet calm that Aziraphale seemed to exude on any given day was fading, and Crowley realised with a start that he looked more and more like the nervous librarian he’d met with Anathema what felt like decades before than the composed, self-confident man Crowley had grown used to. He looked rattled, and Crowley was taken unaware by the sudden protectiveness he felt surging in his guts. He wanted to hold him close and soothe whatever had come over him with such a fierceness that he felt it roar in his blood, sharp and violent, with teeth like fangs.

But that was not the time, and surely it was not the place. He stashed Aziraphale’s luggage on the backseats, close to his own black leather bag, and placed the umbrella behind the front seats. Crowley wasn’t sure why Aziraphale would even need an umbrella, since he presumed the wedding would be organised in such a way to prevent the guests from getting drenched, but he wasn’t about to ask. He took his place and buckled the seatbelt, since Aziraphale had already given him a whole speech about safe driving that Crowley didn’t particularly care to hear again, and turned to look at his passenger.

Aziraphale was staring ahead with glazed-over, far-away eyes, lips pressed in a tight grimace and hair slightly ruffled by the fedora now resting in his lap. He seemed older, in a way, his natural brightness faint and dulled. There were dark shadows under his eyes, and his hands were gripping the fedora a little too tightly.

“Angel?” Crowley called, a little uncertainly.

Aziraphale blinked slowly, once, twice, before finally turning his attention on him.

“Yes?”

Crowley contemplated him for a moment, then handed him his phone.

“Address.”

Aziraphale stared blankly at the phone for a beat, until understanding finally reached his eyes.

“Yes, of course.” He took the phone from Crowley, typed the address and handed it back. “My apologies. I was... distracted.”

“I noticed,” Crowley said, in his best neutral tone. He didn’t know what was the matter there, but he would’ve bet his Bentley that Aziraphale wasn’t going to be particularly forthcoming about it. “Is everything alright?”

“Of course, my dear,” was the predictable answer. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

It was pretty obvious that Aziraphale thought he was doing a fine job at hiding whatever was bothering him, but his forcedly cheerful tone wouldn’t have fooled a five-year-old. Crowley contemplated digging a little, but he eventually decided that if Aziraphale didn’t want to talk about it, it was none of his business to pry. He’d simply make sure to be ready to listen, when Aziraphale was ready to talk.

“Let’s go, then,” Crowley said simply, perching his silenced phone on its support and slotting the stick into gear. They slipped seamlessly into traffic, and Aziraphale didn’t say a single word–not even when the Bentley grazed a passing double-bus at sixty miles per hour, nor when it almost ran over a couple of tourists who were still figuring out the right way to look before crossing the blessed road.

“I hope you didn’t have any trouble getting off work so early,” Aziraphale said, after a long silence. “It was truly unforgivable of me to keep you waiting, after you went out of your way to accommodate my requests.”

Crowley peered at him out of the corner of his eye. Aziraphale looked as stiff as a board and thoroughly dejected at the same time, as though he couldn’t quite choose which sort of misery was more fitting for the occasion. Crowley wasn’t sure what to make of it, or how to fix it.

“No trouble at all, angel,” he answered, hoping that his cheerful tone would sound heart-warming instead of grating. “And no fretting about that, either. You weren’t that late.”

“I was late enough,” was the stern rebuttal. A beat, and then: “I just... well. I just didn’t want to leave my house, I suppose.” Aziraphale gave him a small, rueful smile, full of such self-reproach that Crowley felt his heart contract painfully in his chest. “After everything I’ve dragged you through. How childish of me, really.”

“You don’t have to do a damn thing, if you don’t want to,” Crowley answered, hands gripping the steering wheel like vices. “Say the word and I’ll take you back.”

Aziraphale shook his head.

“It’s my sister’s wedding, being a selfish brat is not enough of an excuse to miss it.”

Aziraphale sighed, deep and a little tremulous.

“But I do wish we could go somewhere else,” he went on, voice soft and almost dreamy. “A whole weekend. We could go down south, see the cliffs. I’ve never been to Dover, you know.”

Something spiked in Crowley’s blood at the words, down to the very marrow of his bones–a yearning that was sizzling far too hot to be contained by the fragile layer of his skin. An entire weekend alone with Aziraphale, travelling along the coast. He’d missed him so fiercely, and now he was there, throwing things like that around as if they were nothing, as if Crowley wouldn’t make a grab for them and hold them so tight into his fists that he would bleed over their sharp edges.

“We could,” he answered, swearing silently at the unsteadiness in his voice. Stupid Crowley. Now was not the time. “I’ll take you to Dover, angel. I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

Another silence, not particularly long, but so inherently different from the ones that had come before that Crowley’s fingers prickled with it. A lonely silence. The sort of silence that belonged to heartbreak.

“Just take me to Sussex, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed, deep, but not wavering. He seemed to have found a footing of some sort, or perhaps he’d appealed to his stubbornness to carry him through. Crowley couldn’t rightly tell, but even if he’d known the man for less than one month, he was well aware of how determined he could be. He had no doubt that Aziraphale would see things through, if that was what he’d decided to do. “We have a wedding to attend to.”

Crowley dipped his head. The navigator on his phone was directing them to the M25, but Crowley knew a better shortcut, and he haughtily disregarded the suggestion.

“As you wish,” he conceded, hitting the gas.

* * *

They had a quiet ride out of the city. It was a gloomy day, with clouds crowding the heavy sky, but although it threatened rain, only a few drops here and there actually hit the windscreen of the Bentley. The mercifully dry weather meant very little traffic jams, at least insofar as traffic in London was concerned, and soon they were leaving the city, chocked full with buildings and people and noise, behind.

Crowley didn’t particularly like the country, but he could appreciate the quiet, and he surely relished the lack of traffic. He took advantage of it by pushing his Bentley a little faster than what was allowed, which would’ve usually warranted him at least a few stern words, but no complaints came from Aziraphale. The man had been steadily staring out of the window since before they’d left the city, gripping at his fedora and gazing at the hilly countryside rolling by. Crowley could barely make out his profile, and wasn’t particularly encouraged by what he saw there. The tightness around Aziraphale’s eyes and mouth hadn’t diminished in the slightest during their ride, only got worse, and his silence was such a rare occurrence by now that Crowley had been brought back to their very first walk in James’s Park, almost two weeks before, and the painful quiet that had punctuated Aziraphale’s strained attempts at talking about his family.

It wasn’t a particularly relaxing drive, all in all, but Crowley could understand Aziraphale’s need for silence, and he respected it. He kept to himself and let the other man process through whatever he needed to process on his own, listening to the purring of the Bentley’s engine. He’d considered turning on the radio, but sudden blasting music would’ve been just as jarring as a forced attempt at conversation, and he didn’t want to unsettle Aziraphale more than he already was.

Left to its own device, his mind started to ramble. The road wasn’t challenging enough to keep the entirety of his attention for long, and Crowley started to wonder about the sort of weekend they were going to be met with, and, worst of all, fantasise about actually taking Aziraphale somewhere, about sitting in leafy meadows and exchanging lazy kisses.

Crowley had thought about fucking Aziraphale so often that it was a wonder he could still look at the man straight in the eye, but he’d never really lingered on that specific fantasy before. Thinking about kissing him had always felt weirdly intimate, like overstepping unspoken boundaries of some kind. Which was ridiculous, of course, but there was some sort of clawing tenderness in wondering what would feel like to have Aziraphale gently cupping his cheek and pressing feather-light kisses upon his mouth that Crowley instinctively shied away from.

He was so caught up in his own mind that he was almost startled at stumbling upon the gates of Aziraphale’s house, after a long winding road in the middle of what looked like a bloody forest. The sky was already dark, but the road was flanked by elegant little streetlamps that casted a soft light onto the narrow path. A brighter spotlight was mounted on top of the gates, which were a huge, ugly thing in wrought iron, painted in a white so glaring it was almost blinding and flanked by what looked like crumbling walls covered in vines. The house was nowhere in sight, which Crowley found rather unnerving.

The Bentley slowed down to a crawl, as they approached the frankly excessive monstrosity that blocked the path. There was a single column on the side of the road, sleek and modern and topped by a solar panel, which clashed with the ancient gates like a disco ball in a churchyard.

“Pull over near the speaker, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, still in that subdued, quiet voice he’d been using since Crowley had picked him up.

The speaker crackled to life as soon as Crowley pulled the Bentley to a stop in front of it and rolled down the window.

“Good evening, and welcome to Needle’s Eye. Could you state your names and the reason for your visit, please?”

It was a polite, detached sort of voice. If it hadn’t been for the minuscule variations in tone and tempo, Crowley would’ve been hard pressed to guess with any accuracy whether there was a software or an actual human being on the other side of the line.

Also, Needle’s Eye? Of all the ridiculous names, really.

He was so busy with his scathing remarks that he nearly missed the way Aziraphale had gone very quiet and very, very still at his side. The man was staring at the speaker as though he’d just remembered something crucial, and was berating himself for having forgotten it in the first place. He was fisting the rigid brim of his fedora hard enough to bend it out of shape, if he didn’t loosen his grasp soon.

Crowley frowned, all thoughts about pompous arses hiding in the countryside completely forgotten. He brushed Aziraphale’s clenched fist, a little tentatively, and Aziraphale almost jumped out of his skin.

“Hello?” the same impersonal voice crackled from the speaker. “May I have your names, please?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale whispered–a wispy, barely-there sort of sound, as though he was struggling to find his voice. He tried again, clearing his throat before repeating, this time almost too forcefully: “Yes, of course. This is Aaron Fell and his plus one. We are here for my sister’s wedding.”

A brief silence, and then a metallic, screeching sound, as the gates slowly slid open.

“Welcome home, Sir,” the polite voice crackled one last time, before going silent.

Crowley blinked at the gates, widening like the maws of a hungry animal in front of them. He’d kept his hands on the steering wheel the entire time, absentmindedly stroking the expensive leather. He thought about saying something, anything at all about that Aaron Fell breaking news that had just landed into his lap, but he decided against it. Aziraphale was looking away from him, staring out of the window as though he could make something out in the darkness, and if that wasn’t a blatant suggestion to leave him alone, Crowley had never seen one.

He shifted his stick into gear, slowly driving the Bentley between the garish iron gates. The path was barely wide enough for two cars to pass abreast, but carefully paved and well-lit. It narrowed down a bit worryingly as they were forced to ride under some sort of arch, but after that it was easy road again. Aziraphale sat rigidly composed, holding himself so stiffly that Crowley feared he would break a bone soon if he didn’t relax a little. But he didn’t look like he needed or wanted Crowley’s assistance in the matter, and as much as Crowley yearned to reach out and take Aziraphale’s hand to remind him that he wasn’t alone in the darkness, he wasn’t sure that his offer would be appreciated in that specific moment.

The narrow path ended in a wide courtyard, softly lit by the same wrought-iron streetlamps that had accompanied them since they’d left the main road. The courtyard was fenced in by the outstretched arms of a huge mansion, decadently elaborated and ghostly-pale in the darkness. There were lights blinking like sleepy eyes behind a few windows, but most of them looked dead and abandoned, like strange oceans lapping at scattered archipelagos of bright islands.

There was a man, standing in front of what Crowley guessed was the main entrance.

Crowley pulled over slowly, uncertain about what was going on there. He’d guessed that Aziraphale’s family was well-off, and he’d suspected that his ‘family house’ would be some sort of fancy residence in the countryside, but that exceeded his wildest dreams. That was money; a lot of money, from the look of it, and very, very old. Glancing at the dark turrets of a house so huge that it escaped the soft circle of light projected by the streetlamps, Crowley understood a bit better what Aziraphale had meant about old roots, and old ways. He also realised that he was way out of his league, and that if he had anything in his head aside from air, anything at all, he’d do well to turn his car around and go back to where he’d come from. He had absolutely nothing in common with people such as that, and he was pretty sure he was happier that way. But he couldn’t abandon Aziraphale. He’d promised him his help, and he had every intention of standing by his side until the bitter end.

It would’ve helped, of course, if Aziraphale had said a single word. Crowley didn’t know the right protocol for a joyride to a mansion in the country, and the man was slowly making his way from the main entrance towards them. He was impeccably dressed in a black suit, and Crowley would’ve bet good money that that was the butler. His period drama frenzy was finally paying off.

Crowley rolled down the window a little gingerly, as the man reached his side.

“Welcome to Needle’s Eye, Sirs. May I help you with your luggage?”

“’m fine,” Crowley answered, a little taken aback. He felt as if he’d stepped back in time, or as if he’d just checked into a ridiculously posh hotel. “Aziraphale?”

Hearing his name seemed to drag Aziraphale back from his reverie. He’d been staring steadily at the house without saying a single word, and he turned to Crowley in a blinking gaze, all startled blue eyes and deep-set frown.

“Yes?” he asked, low and a little scratchy. Crowley let his gaze linger, before lifting his chin in the butler’s general direction.

“This bloke wants your bag, I think.”

Aziraphale leant a little in Crowley’s space to peer out of his window. The scent of his cologne hit Crowley like a blow, as he flattened his back against the seat to keep himself from reaching out and _touching_.

(The ache was set so deep into his skin by now that he could feel it in every muscle, in every bone, straining towards Aziraphale like a beacon in a blizzard.)

“Hello, Mr. Young,” Aziraphale said, carefully polite. “Thank you, but we won’t be needing your help.”

The butler frowned a little at that, but bowed respectfully.

“As you say, Sir.”

The butler helped Crowley to open the door, which Crowley didn’t need or particularly appreciate. It irked him to have strangers touching his car, especially when they hadn’t asked permission beforehand. He swallowed his irritation and stepped out. He heard Aziraphale follow suit, the gentle click of the latch as he closed the door behind. Crowley took out their luggage and handed Aziraphale his bag and his umbrella, before slinging his own bag over his shoulder and staring expectantly at the butler.

“May I have your keys, Sir?” the man patiently asked, when it became clear that Crowley had to be cued in on what was next to come.

Crowley downright scolded at the preposterousness of such a request.

“What?”

“Your keys, Sir,” the butler repeated, a little strain filtering through in his unflinchingly polite tone. “I’ll take care of your car for you.”

Crowley was about to hiss that absolutely _no one_ drove his car but him, when he felt the gentle press of Aziraphale’s hand on his arm.

“You can go with him, dear,” he said, low and gentle and so achingly understanding that Crowley felt his heart drop to his knees at the softness in those haunted blue eyes, shadowed by the brim of the fedora. “I’ll wait for you inside.”

Crowley hesitated, caught between Aziraphale and his car. He’d normally die before handing his baby over to a complete stranger (or kill said stranger with his teeth, if push came to shove), but he couldn’t let Aziraphale alone in that place. It was a physical impossibility. It was a much older, angrier sort of instinct–a silly one, but too strong to be ignored. There was something wrong going on there, something that felt very much like the culmination of all the little bits and pieces he’d been collecting like a magpie for the past weeks, and what Crowley was feeling at the idea of letting Aziraphale out of his sight was close to mounting panic.

It took everything Crowley had to give his keys over to the butler, but he did so, albeit begrudgingly.

“One scratch and I’ll come back for you,” he grumbled, a little peeved that his menacing hiss barely stirred a very unimpressed raised brow.

“Your car will be handled with the utmost care, Sir,” the butler replied, taking his key without the slightest hint of fear or at least unease in his eyes. “Would that be all?”

“Yes, Mr. Young, thank you,” Aziraphale interjected. He hesitated a moment, hand fluttering at his side, pulling at his waistcoat, smoothing down his wool coat, adjusting the brim of his fedora, and then finally reaching out to Crowley. His palm was just as soft and warm as Crowley remembered, as he took Crowley’s hand in his and squeezed it gently. “Shall we go, my dear?”

Crowley swallowed once, twice, before nodding. He’d been so caught up in his fantasies where he could touch Aziraphale in any way he wanted that it felt a bit jarring to realise that that was the most intimate moment they’d ever shared; their first reciprocated touch. Crowley wanted nothing more than to hold on to it until the world crumbled around them, until everything turned to ashes.

“Let’s,” he barely found the wherewithal to answer, voice shuddering a little in his throat like a caged bird.

Aziraphale searched his face a moment longer, thumb absentmindedly stroking the back of Crowley’s hand, before nodding back.

Crowley was barely aware of the butler getting into his car and driving away, as they made their way to the open door of the looming house. The soft light coming from inside was casting a halo onto the threshold, warm and vaguely eerie, and they were finally there, finally about to meet Aziraphale’s family, to dive head first into the blasted wedding that had kick-started the entire mess, and yet there was precious little else Crowley could think about, beyond the grasp of Aziraphale’s hand on his.

He let Aziraphale shepherd him inside, and closed the door behind them as they went.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!  
Yes, I’m in a REFL frenzy, if anyone was wondering. After endless pining we’re getting to the good bits (I’ll let you guess which sorts of bits they are) and I just can’t stop writing.  
Now, before we start. I don’t think this story is heavy enough to warrant proper chapter warnings, but there will be unpleasant situations ahead, and I don’t want anyone to come here for some funny reading and end up being unpleasantly surprised. Therefore, if family is a difficult subject for you, the next four chapters (11 to 14) might warrant a bit of caution. I wouldn’t suggest skipping them, because they are important, plot-wise, but I also wouldn’t want for anyone to jump in unprepared.  
I hope you’ll like the chapter, and I’d like to thank all of you, as always, for the love and appreciation you’ve been pouring over this story. You are an absolute delight <3

The house was old. Crowley had surmised as much from the outside, but walking upon ancient wooden floors that creaked at every step had turned that vague academic notion into an inescapable reality. The house was old, and grand, and oozed a sense of bygone decadence that spoke of noble blood, or at least substantial amounts of money. There were carefully restored frescoes painted onto the walls, and a miscellaneous array of furniture with a widely diverse number of years on its shoulders. Crowley was by no means an expert, but there was stuff in there that had to be at least a few centuries old, and other that was younger than his car. It was a bit like being engulfed into a weird time-capsule, with bits and pieces from the last five hundred years scattered everywhere without any feasible order.

Crowley clung to Aziraphale’s hand and allowed himself to be led through the great hall, with its huge crystal chandelier, into a lateral corridor.

“The cloakroom is this way,” Aziraphale explained. His voice was down to a whisper, almost as if he was trying to be as quiet and unobtrusive as possible to escape dangerous predators.

Perhaps with just cause, after all.

“Aaron! There you are!”

The forcibly cheerful voice stopped Aziraphale dead on his track, so abruptly that Crowley nearly stumbled into him. His back had become ramrod straight, and the grip of his hand almost painful. It was twice as grating, therefore, to see that bright, obviously fake smile on his face, when Aziraphale turned to greet the stranger who had just popped out of the floor like some sort of fungus from behind them.

“Hello, Gabriel,” Aziraphale said, with such a forceful joy in his voice that Crowley nearly cringed at the sound. “It’s been too long.”

The man, Gabriel, strode up to them with a purposeful gate and stretched his hand. Aziraphale took it first, with only a split-second hesitation.

“I’m Gabriel Fell, Aaron’s brother,” the man introduced himself, shoving his hand at Crowley. He was taller than Aziraphale, even taller than Crowley, and was looming over them like a handsome, scarily put-together armoire. He had wide shoulders and an imposing figure that made him look large even if he was quite lean, and was dressed in a blinding white suit like an Armani model. Crowley had never liked people who dressed better than him. “And you must be Aaron’s friend, yes?”

There was something in his voice that made Crowley’s hackles rise. A dismissive lilt, as though he was talking about Aziraphale’s little playground mate. Crowley’s instinctive dislike grew disproportionately.

“I am _Aziraphale_’s _partner_, yes,” he ground out, forcing himself to take Gabriel’s proffered hand. Crowley had to let go of Aziraphale to do so, and wasn’t particularly happy with the exchange. Especially since Gabriel’s understanding of a handshake seemed to be something along the lines of ‘crush ‘em until they beg for mercy’, but Crowley would be damned if he didn’t give back as good as he got.

“Aziraphale?” Gabriel repeated, cocking his head. Crowley could’ve sworn he felt his bones grinding against each other in Gabriel’s iron grip, but he’d never been one to back off from a pissing contest, and he refused to shake the ache away from his crushed hand when Gabriel finally relinquished his grasp. He wasn’t sure if Aziraphale wanted to be holding hands with him in front of his brother, though, so he let it fall to his side. “Still holding on to that ridiculous made-up name, brother?”

“It’s _my_ name,” Aziraphale feebly answered.

“_Aaron_ is your name,” Gabriel retorted, as if aggravated by all that nonsense, before turning to Crowley: “And do _you_ have a name, or should I just call you _partner_?”

Crowley ground his teeth. Now he understood Aziraphale’s worries about Crowley punching his insufferable brother’s smug face. He understood perfectly well.

“Anthony J. Crowley.”

“Anthony J. Crowley,” Gabriel mused, crossing his arms over his chest. “Sounds like the kind of name a rock-star would choose. He’s even dressed like a rock-star. Have you been dating a rock-star behind our backs, little brother?”

He made it sound as if Aziraphale was a fifteen-year-old having a fling with the resident bad boy in a teen drama from the early eighties, instead of a man well in his forties bringing his partner to a family reunion. It was condescending, dismissive, undignified, and ultimately humiliating. Aziraphale’s cheeks were burning as he looked at his feet, fists clenched at his sides.

“He’s a journalist,” he answered, in a small voice that Crowley had never heard coming from him. It was terrible, heart-wrenching. It was infuriating.

Gabriel looked him up and down as though Crowley had scuttled out of the sewers onto his antique floors and pissed all over them.

“A _journalist_,” Gabriel repeated, a disbelieving note in his voice. “Well, close enough. For which newspaper? The Times? The Telegraph?”

There was something in his conceited, scornful face that made Crowley want to _push_ with all his might. He’d never been very good at suffering arseholes. He’d try, for Aziraphale’s sake, but he couldn’t be expected to reign it all in.

“You’re shite out of luck, I’m afraid,” Crowley answered, with a sharp, jeering grin. “Just a lousy Sainsbury tabloid. I don’t deal with that kind of fancy.”

He felt Aziraphale reach for his hand, squeeze it tightly. A warning. He ought to behave, as much as it grated doing so. He stroked the back of Aziraphale’s hand with his thumb, soothing and a little chagrined.

“I see,” Gabriel answered. His face twisted for a moment, as though he’d put something utterly disgusting into his mouth, then his expression smoothed out into a frankly disquieting winning smile. “Well, you’re both very welcome, of course. I hope the trip wasn’t too taxing.”

“It was tickety-boo, not one traffic jam on the road,” Aziraphale commented cheerfully, still clutching Crowley’s hand. “Wasn’t it, Crowley?”

“It was alright,” Crowley answered with a shrug. He was focused on the feeling of Aziraphale’s palm pressed tight against his, and had lost all interest in Gabriel and his smarmy face.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Gabriel countered, with that plastic smile of his. “I wasn’t so lucky. My flight from Boston was six hours late, and I had to rush to get here in time. Needn’t have worried, though, am I right? The entire family was still waiting for _you_.”

(Boston. Well, that explained the American accent.)

The blatant dig made Aziraphale’s face twist into a grimace, though he valiantly tried to hide it behind a forced smile.

“You needn’t have waited. I told Michael you could just get started without us...”

“Nonsense!” Gabriel boomed, opening his arms in a mock embrace and showing his teeth in what he obviously thought was a charming, fond smile. “You’re family. We couldn’t start without you. Would you like to get changed into something a little more appropriate before coming down to dinner?”

Crowley spotted the hesitant, lightning-quick glance Aziraphale threw his way. He was wearing his usual skin-tight black jeans, with a white button-up, a red tie and a black waistcoat hidden under his coat, but he had a couple of suits carefully packed in his bag. He disliked the idea of accommodating the expectations of that bunch of tossers, but he would without complaints if Aziraphale asked, and the idea of dressing up a little for _him_, if not for his arseholes siblings, wasn’t without appeals. He was therefore ready to bow to social conventions and get into his suit, when Aziraphale spoke up.

“No, I think we’re fine the way we are,” he said, startling both Crowley and his brother. “Just give us a moment to settle in and we’ll be right down.”

“I... see,” Gabriel said, something between shock and consternation battling on his face against his disingenuous grin. “Well, then. Michael had your old room made ready for you and your... partner. I’ll go tell the others you’re here. We’ll be waiting.”

“Thank you, brother,” Aziraphale answered, and then he was leaving, resolutely tugging Crowley’s hand to spur him to come along. Crowley stalled a moment to shoot Gabriel an obnoxiously oily smirk, before following Aziraphale into a small, shadowy room. It was chocked full with very modern clothes racks, mostly empty and obviously meant to hold the wedding guests’ coats and jackets. Aziraphale took out a hanger, carefully draping his wool coat on it, and then found a corner for his umbrella and fedora.

Crowley could still hear the creaking of Gabriel’s feet onto the old floor as he handed Aziraphale his coat, but soon they were alone. He thought about cracking a joke about what an arsehole Aziraphale’s blasted brother was, but he wasn’t sure how well it’d be received. It wasn’t the right time, and he’d be probably out of line. Besides, Aziraphale’s mood had been so odd during the entire day that Crowley was more at a loss than ever on how to read him.

He regarded him in silence, as Aziraphale hung Crowley’s coat and then spent an inordinate amount of time simply stroking the wool blend, smoothing down invisible lines. Crowley would’ve better appreciated the sentiment if Aziraphale had done that _before_ Crowley had taken the blasted thing off.

“I think I owe you an apology,” Aziraphale finally said, voice so low that Crowley had to strain to listen. He wasn’t looking at him, still stroking the coat with slow, steady touches. “But I’m afraid I’ll be owing you more than one, before we’re done, and I’d rather not use up the entire time we spend here apologising to you. So, please, know this. I’m very, very sorry. For everything my siblings will do and say to you. I don’t know how, yet, but I’ll make it up to you. I swear.”

Crowley hesitated, uncertain about the best course of action, then damned everything to hell and reached out, taking the hand Aziraphale had been obsessively smoothing up and down the coat.

“What are you even apologising for?” Crowley replied, a little gruffly, as he clasped both his hands around Aziraphale’s. “You’re not responsible for your wanker siblings. They’re big enough to answer for their own actions. And you have nothing to make up to me. I chose to be here, and I’ll make damn sure to drink your family’s undoubtedly fancy wine reservoir as payment for my services.”

Aziraphale looked up, holding his gaze for a hushed, long moment. Crowley felt the touch of it, like the chiming of a silver bell echoing in the silence in dwindling ripples. It clung to them. It lingered.

Then, Aziraphale bowed his head with a sigh, taking his hand away. Crowley ruthlessly squashed the disappointment rising in his chest.

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured, low and feather-soft. “But we’d better hurry along, now.”

Crowley dipped his head into a nod, following Aziraphale out of the room and up a set of stairs. They creaked at every step, like everything seemed to do in that blasted house. Crowley had an inkling that it’d get very old very fast, but he didn’t complain, as they reached the first floor and Aziraphale led him through a narrow corridor to a closed door at the farthest end.

Aziraphale reached for the door, then paused, hand stilled in mid-movement. He looked nervous, all of a sudden, forehead burrowed into a deep frown. He clenched his hand into a fist and then let go, finally completing the motion and turning the handle.

The door opened with an (obviously) audible creak, and soon Crowley was stepping into what looked like a somewhat anachronistic eighteenth-century nursery. There was a modern desk lamp on the handmade round table, worn-out upholsteries on the quaint chairs and antique loveseat, and the contemporary queen-sized bed was pushed against a faded wallpaper of rambling vines and swirling flowers sprouting from delicate cornucopias. The continent had an odd look to it on the chipped wooden globe perched onto the thick chest of drawers, next to a cheap reproduction of Euripides’ bust and a small collection of school awards that Crowley wasn’t particularly surprised to see in Aziraphale’s bedroom. It seemed like the kind of stuff Aziraphale would win without even trying. The bed was made up with a thick duvet and soft-looking linen that had nothing antique about them, and was flanked by plush cream-coloured carpets that looked like they’d just been shipped from some interior design store with a fancy name that people shopping there only pretended to be able to pronounce.

Crowley knew he was showing a noticeable lack of manners, nosing about someone else’s room, but he couldn’t help it. Aziraphale himself was standing close to the bed, gazing about as though he as well was seeing the place for the first time.

“It’s been... so long,” he exhaled eventually, reaching out to smooth a hand over a small night table. “I’d almost forgotten what it looked like.”

“It’s... nice,” Crowley said. What he meant to say was that it barely looked lived in, or at least lived in by this particular man, instead of generations of nameless children. “You spent a lot of time here, as a kid?”

Aziraphale hummed. He looked far-away, lost in memories.

“Not quite. This is a beautiful house, but not exactly practical. We’re in the middle of nowhere, and Mother was always invited to this or that university for a semester or two and didn’t have the time to look after us. We’ve all been shipped to some boarding school as soon as we were old enough to walk. We’d come home for Christmas, though. And other holidays.”

Crowley tilted his head. That sounded... as sad as his own childhood, to be honest. He could almost see Aziraphale, a small boy in shorts walking down the halls of some fancy public school, clutching a stack of books to his chest. Crowley wondered if he’d been treated well, if he’d had many friends. If he’d been lonely.

“Did you like that?” Crowley asked, softly, gently, “Staying away for so long?”

“Not really,” Aziraphale answered, with that same detached, far-away voice. “But I didn’t like coming back here either, so there you have it.” He blinked, bringing Crowley back into focus, and gifted him with a wiry smile. “I’ve always been very difficult to please, I suppose.”

“Not with me, you haven’t,” Crowley blurted, before he could think better of it.

Aziraphale ducked his head with an embarrassed chuckle.

“You’re always too kind to me, my dear. Have you already forgotten our last walk in the park? I behaved horrendously, throwing tantrums like an ill-mannered child for a little rain.”

Crowley couldn’t stop himself, not with that streak of self-reproach lying there where it didn’t have any business to be.

“Dunno, I found your little tantrum quite endearing, to be honest,” he purred, grinning his most devilish smile at Aziraphale. “I was starting to worry you were too perfect to be real.”

Aziraphale ducked his head again, then chuckled, looking up at Crowley with warm eyes and a little smirk of his own.

“You need to be more careful about what you say, my dear,” Aziraphale commented, eyes sparking with mischief. “Someone might actually believe you.”

“I thought that was exactly the point of this entire enterprise, angel,” Crowley quipped. He didn’t expect his joke to land flat, or that mischievous spark to be smothered in Aziraphale’s bright eyes.

Aziraphale looked away, the moment thoroughly shattered.

“Yes, I guess you’re right,” he answered. “We should hurry. They’re waiting for us.”

Crowley dipped his head in reluctant acquiescence. He could’ve kicked himself.

“Sure, angel.”

“I’ll show you where you can hang your clothes,” Aziraphale carried on, “but we can ask Mrs. Young to take care of them, if they got wrinkled.”

He led Crowley to the antique armoire that stood right in front of the bed, and a faint smell of varnished wood wafted out when he opened the door. The armoire was completely empty, save for a dozen rather modern hangers swinging gently from the brass bar.

None of them said a word, as they unpacked their suits and checked for wrinkles. Eventually, Aziraphale declared that he’d ask this mysterious Mrs. Young, who Crowley guessed was either the butler’s mother or his wife, to iron them out.

Once that was settled, Aziraphale offered Crowley a moment to freshen up, before heading down. He showed him a surprisingly modern en-suite bathroom, offering to take himself to the guest bathroom two doors down the corridor. Crowley tried to put up a token protest, but Aziraphale waved it away and headed out.

Left to his own devices, Crowley took advantage of the respite for taking a piss, washing his face and fixing his hair. He’d have gladly taken a shower, after an entire day in the office, but that didn’t seem to be on the table for now.

He was about to put his sunglasses back on, when he hesitated. The last thing he wanted was to change his habits for a bunch of tossers, but he didn’t feel like hiding, for once. He wanted them to see the disgust in his eyes. He wanted them to know what he thought of the way they talked to Aziraphale, if all his siblings were anything like Gabriel, and the exact extent of the contempt he held for anyone who considered Aziraphale a diminutive human being that could be scorned that way. He wanted all of them to know, very clearly, on whose side he was.

Aziraphale was already back, when Crowley came out of the bathroom. He was standing by the bed, taking the room in. He seemed troubled, lost in thought, but his gaze zeroed immediately on Crowley, eyes widening, as he took in Crowley’s naked face. He looked like he wanted to say something, but thought better of it. Crowley took his time to fold the glasses in his hands, slowly, deliberately, and then left them on top of the chest of drawers, close to Euripides’ bust.

“Ready to go, angel?” Crowley asked, smiling at him. There was something to be said about the shade of Aziraphale’s pale skin without the sunglasses, the shifting hue of his blue eyes. Crowley thought vaguely that he ought to consider taking off his glasses a bit more often in Aziraphale’s presence. Pretending to be cool was getting more and more difficult when he was with him, and Crowley was one step away from giving up on the charade entirely. Cool was overrated, anyway.

Aziraphale was staring up at his face in silence, eyes very blue, and very wide.

“Yes,” he breathed, “I think I am.”

* * *

Aziraphale didn’t take his hand again, as they walked down the stairs, but they were walking close enough that Crowley could feel the almost-brush of his clothes and was reached by faint whiffs of his cologne at every step. He followed Aziraphale through the hall and into a narrow corridor, carefully watching for clues as Aziraphale stopped in front of another closed door. He could hear soft voices coming from the other side, the low hum of laughter. Aziraphale didn’t look at him; he just took a deep breath and opened the door.

The muttering ceased instantly, as they stepped into the room. It was a huge space, almost entirely occupied by a long dining table and lit by antique chandeliers mounted onto the walls. There was probably just as much to see there as in the rest of the house, the overabundance of details nearly cluttering the space, but it was difficult to take a good look around with about half a dozen people staring at them in critical silence. Everyone was wearing a suit or a formal dress of some sort, and Crowley felt vaguely underdressed for the occasion.

It was a rather thorny situation, Crowley mused. And, as in every thorny situation he’d been forced to face since he was fifteen years old, Crowley knew that he could count on the unfailing help of his old wanker self. He stuck his hands in his pockets and graced everyone with his best shite-eating grin, making sure to turn it up to blinding levels purely for Gabriel’s benefit.

The tosser didn’t seem to appreciate the effort, judging by his sour face, but there was no account for taste, after all.

“Good evening, everyone,” Aziraphale said, low and subdued. He was fidgeting, shoulders a little stooped, as though he was trying to make himself as small as possible. “Apologies for the delay. I hope you haven’t been waiting overly long.”

“Well, what’s important is that you’re finally here, brother,” Gabriel answered, with the obvious implication that they _had_ in fact been waiting for long and were tolerating his tardiness in a show of good manners. “Take a seat. We were just talking about you and your _partner_.”

There was the slightest purr of a sneer in the way Gabriel used the word, like a faint mocking coat. It made Crowley want to throw a chair at his smug face. He’d known the twit for less than one hour and he already wanted to punch him back to the middle ages, where hopefully he’d be cursed by a witch and forced to live out his life with the worst case of haemorrhoids known to gods and men.

“Isn’t that sweet,” Crowley grumbled, low enough that only Aziraphale could hear him. He was graced with a small, harried smile–barely a ghost of Aziraphale’s usual beaming smiles, but a smile nevertheless. Crowley brushed his hand as they walked around the table, taking the last two set places near a pudgy middle-aged man with a silver tooth who immediately took a place of honour in Crowley’s mind amongst the creepiest people he’d ever met. And Crowley was a _tabloid journalist_–it was a zoo up there.

It was a bit odd, sitting at the far end of the table. The thing was big enough to seat three times as many as the people currently occupying it, and there was an endless row of empty chairs at Crowley’s right. Still better than Aziraphale’s relatives, though.

“Everyone,” Gabriel declared, as soon as Crowley and Aziraphale had taken their places, “this is Anthony, Aaron’s new beau.”

Everyone murmured “pleased to meet you” or some variations thereof, while Crowley did his best to morph his sneer into a smile. _Beau_ now. Really.

“We’ve met already, of course,” Gabriel said, all overly-friendly grins and shimmering violet eyes. Of course that massive twit had violet eyes. How could he ever _not_. “This is our older brother, Metatron. Over there are Michael and Uriel, with Uriel’s parents, Abigail and Elijah. And that’s Sandalphon.”

Sandalphon was the creepy balding bloke seated by Aziraphale’s side, then, while Michael was the most dapper woman Crowley had ever seen. Aziraphale had never spoken about someone named Uriel (and Crowley would’ve remembered somebody afflicted with such a terrible name), but given that she was sitting by Michael’s side and that her parents were there, Crowley surmised that she was probably Michael’s fiancé. None of them seemed to be particularly happy to meet him, even if Uriel’s parents were doing their best to be at least polite about that.

Metatron, the old man sitting at the head of the table, simply looked bored.

“Well, then,” he interjected, clearly having had enough of his siblings’ nonsense, “now that we’re all here, we can finally eat.”

He nodded at someone at the end of the hall, and Crowley realised with a bit of a start that Mr. Young was actually standing there in parade rest, ready to be of service. He quickly disappeared behind the door.

“Well, tell us a bit about you, Anthony,” Gabriel said, to fill the silence. “We’re all _dying_ to know how you got to meet our brother.”

Crowley had been expecting the question. He was ready.

(He also toyed for a moment with the idea of telling the truth, that he’d been enlisted to help out Aziraphale because the poor man had been dealt the shittiest family on Earth, but he thought better of it. He really didn’t care about the delicate sensibilities of anyone sitting at that table, but he’d never say anything that would make that terrible weekend even worse for Aziraphale.)

“There isn’t much to tell, really,” Crowley answered, all supercilious looks and sharp, sharp smirks. “We happen to go to the same coffee shop. I saw him reading in a corner and I couldn’t really help myself–I _had_ to go over there and let him know that Jane Austen is a bleeding waste of time.”

The insult was apparently enough to stir Aziraphale out of his dejected state of mind to aim a withering glare at Crowley. Crowley smirked wickedly at the scowl, and bumped his knee against Aziraphale’s under the table. A hint of a smile was glimmering on Aziraphale’s lips, as he looked away.

“A coffee shop,” Gabriel slowly repeated, as though he wasn’t quite sure what on earth a coffee shop was, and didn’t care much about finding out.

“That’s... sweet,” Uriel’s mother offered, when it became clear that no one else was going to add anything to that extraordinary piece of news.

“Very,” Gabriel distractedly agreed, before adding: “Since we’re talking about relationships, would you believe whom I met a month ago, at that conference on neurosurgery in Bonn? Yes, Aaron, you guessed it. Robert was there. Such a coincidence, don’t you think?”

“Not really,” Aziraphale answered, low and deceitfully meek. “You went to a Neurology conference, it was pretty much a given he’d be there.”

“Robert was Aaron’s latest partner,” Gabriel was kind enough to inform Crowley, “a world-famous neurosurgeon. Quite a catch, really. Such a pity that Aaron let him get away.”

Crowley lifted a brow at him.

The ex-boyfriend card. Really. He’d met craftier and meaner four-year-olds at the playground.

“He sounds like a dream,” Crowley purred. “I’d hurry up and get him, if I were you.”

Gabriel shot him a confused look, before his meaning eventually got through that handsome skull of his. Gabriel looked harried for a moment, clearly unhappy at his dig falling flat, but then the winning smile was plastered once again upon his face.

“I don’t think my wife would appreciate it,” he laughed, just a bit forced. “She couldn’t get away from school in time for today’s flight, but she’ll be here for the wedding, with the kids.”

“You got kids,” Crowley commented slowly, trying to come to terms with such a disquieting revelation, “how lovely.”

“Two of them, a girl and a boy,” Gabriel answered, father’s pride pouring out of him in waves. “Ruth is seven and already skipping classes, while her brother is a contest-winner skater at five. They are the best kids a man could ask for.”

Crowley nodded with the required amount of admiration, while secretly congratulating the poor kids for being on the fast track for a meltdown before they even reached puberty.

The return of Mr. Young with their dinner brought an end to that wonderful conversation. He was followed by a couple of young men in frocks, and it all looked very respectable and quite ridiculous as the entrées were served. It was something with a lot of French and very little food, by the look of it, and Crowley eyed his plate a bit suspiciously.

Conversation luckily moved on to other topics, after that. Crowley had never had to eat before with more than one knife and one fork, which had served him quite well in the past in their lonesome, but there seemed to be a whole army of them on the table, and Crowley was woefully unprepared for the challenge. He kept a keen eye on Aziraphale and mimicked his every movement, relieved that the focus of the entire assembly had shifted away from them. He didn’t particularly care about anything Gabriel could throw their way, but Aziraphale looked more silent and subdued than he’d ever seen him, and Crowley wasn’t sure what to make of it. The man hadn’t said a word, speaking only when he was spoken to, and had barely lifted his head from his plate.

After a very long half an hour, spent listening to Gabriel’s inane chattering about his miracle kids and something marginally more interesting about Uriel’s background (who apparently worked as an army nurse), Crowley subtly spread his legs to bump his knee against Aziraphale’s. The man didn’t lift his head from his plate, but he did shoot Crowley a glance from the corner of his eye. There was the barest whisper of a smile on his lips, and Crowley got bolder, pressing his entire lower leg against Aziraphale’s, from foot to knee. Aziraphale’s calf felt solid and warm against Crowley’s, even through the thick layer of his jeans, and that flicker of a smile seemed to deepen on the plump lips.

Crowley was smirking to himself, sharp and a bit wicked, as he complimented Gabriel for whatever his children had been up to and pressed his leg against Aziraphale’s a little more firmly.

* * *

Dinner felt like it would last forever, but eventually even Gabriel seemed to run out of tosser energy and was forced to declare defeat. No one looked particularly stricken by such a tragedy, and the small party was quick enough to trickle out of the room and disappear where Gabriel hopefully wouldn’t be able to find them. Crowley had to suffer a few clasps on his shoulder from both Gabriel and Sandalphon, of which he hadn’t really felt the need for, and a cool, disparaging look from Uriel, who didn’t seem particularly enthusiastic about being associated with him even by proxy. She needn’t have worried, Crowley thought, a little dejectedly–none of that was real. He would disappear from their lives soon enough.

Aziraphale was still in that odd subdued mood as they climbed the stairs to his room, gaze a little lonely and a little lost. Crowley considered making a grab for his hand at least twice during the short trip, but he thought better of it. The last thing he wanted was to impose his presence when it wasn’t appreciated, and yes, he didn’t particularly fancy the idea of Aziraphale shrinking away from his touch. He felt like he was walking on eggshells, every step a potential disaster, and he’d reached that level of personal involvement where his ability to read the person he was interested in had been completely shot to hell. How could he be expected to make an objective evaluation, when he yearned for it so damn much? And whatever had been building up between them was so confusing, so complicated, twisting on itself like a bramble. It was like they were dancing to two completely different sets of music, and could never really meet in the middle, just bump into each other painfully every time they tried to turn.

What was that Aziraphale wanted, really? He seemed to find Crowley attractive enough, but that didn’t mean anything, if he had no intention of acting on it.

(Crowley resolutely refused to consider their botched evening at the coffee shop. It was enough of an anomaly that didn’t bear thinking about, and since Crowley had turned Aziraphale’s invitation down, he would never know what Aziraphale had actually meant by it.

That evening had also been confusing and embarrassing enough that Crowley most definitely did not _want_ to think about it, which sort of settled it.)

There was also the pesky ex-boyfriend to consider, that dreamy neurosurgeon that sounded like Gabriel would’ve married himself, if he hadn’t been so painfully heterosexual. Aziraphale hadn’t seemed particularly shattered at his mention, but it was difficult to make an estimate, when he hadn’t been himself (or the version of him Crowley was familiar with, at least) during the entire day.

All in all, as Anathema had so sensibly pointed out, the best way to find an answer to his question would be of course to ask the man himself, but Crowley had never been very good at doing the sensible thing, or asking questions when he was terrified of the answers. It was better to linger in that painful limbo than being punched in the guts by a heartbreaking truth.

So, Crowley followed Aziraphale into his room without saying a word, nor reaching for his hand, choosing instead to ruminate rather uselessly on the very same thoughts that he’d been steadily picking at like scabs for the past weeks. He watched Aziraphale rummage in his bag and take out what looked like a tartan pyjama, of all things, and then gaze almost shyly at him.

“I’ll take the guest bathroom, dear,” he said, and then he was gone. Left to his own devices, Crowley sighed to himself, then got a black vest and a pair of black boxers from his bag (he’d try for Aziraphale’s sake to sleep in something a bit less revealing than his bare skin, but he’d kill himself before donning a bleeding _pyjama_, of all things) and went to the en suite for a much-needed shower.

He came back to find Aziraphale sitting on the ancient loveseat with a book in his lap, so engrossed in his reading that he almost jumped out of his skin when Crowley called his name.

“Oh, goodness, I’m sorry, I was...”

Aziraphale trailed off in his fluttering apology, as he took Crowley in. He looked him up and down once, twice, mouth working to say something as his ears blushed pink.

“Oh, Good Lord,” he muttered eventually, looking away, before stealing another quick glance with a little more intent, this time. Crowley grinned at him. “You’ll catch your death, going to bed like that.”

“It’s actually more clothing than I’m used to,” Crowley said, somehow managing to shrug while towelling off his hair. Aziraphale seemed to consider his quip for a moment, but instead of getting flustered all over again, which had been Crowley’s secret intention, he seemed to find that little titbit of information somewhat displeasing.

“Yes, well,” he answered, with a crisp, flat voice, going back to his book.

Crowley frowned, not sure about what he’d said that could’ve possibly been taken the wrong way, but eventually decided against further investigations. He finished rubbing off his hair, then went back to the bathroom with a tube of styling gel to fix it properly.

Aziraphale was still perched on the loveseat, when Crowley came out. He didn’t spare him a glance, apparently so engrossed in his book that he’d completely failed to notice Crowley’s presence. Standing in the middle of the room like an idiot, without an inkling of whatever he was supposed to do next, Crowley acutely missed the towel he’d just left in the bathroom. At least, as he dried his hair off, he’d had something to do with his hands.

It was an awkward, tense kind of silence. Crowley would’ve bet his Bentley that Aziraphale was aware of his presence, not two steps away from him, but he was resolutely ignoring him, and Crowley wasn’t too sure about the right protocol for the occasion. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d shared a bed with someone without having sex with them first, and was utterly clueless on what sexless sleepovers actually entitled.

Since Aziraphale seemed determined to ignore him, Crowley picked up his phone with a shrug and sprawled his long limbs all over the bed. He’d have much preferred to spend his time with Aziraphale than check those useless social networks for something actually worthy of his time, but since that didn’t seem to be an option, passing the evening satisfying his curiosity would have to do.

The minutes seemed to crawl by at an impossibly slow pace, after that. Crowley couldn’t help peeking over his phone to check what Aziraphale was doing, and he could’ve sworn that he’d caught Aziraphale doing the same at least four times in the hour they spent in obstinate silence. Eventually, bored and not a little miffed by whatever on earth _that_ was, Crowley threw his phone onto the night table and shuffled under the covers.

“Not sure ‘bout you, angel, but I’m knackered,” he grumbled, though he didn’t feel drowsy in the slightest. “’m going to get some sleep.”

Aziraphale seemed to consider that for a moment, then he closed his book and got up.

“It’s probably the sensible thing to do, yes,” he conceded, even if he didn’t look particularly convinced. He shuffled close to the bed, touching the covers. His hand wasn’t in Crowley’s proximity in any possible sense of the word, and yet Crowley could’ve sworn he felt the touch ricochet onto his bare skin, feather-like and electrifying. “I’ve come back to this house a few times, during the past twenty-odd years, but rarely long enough to spend the night. I don’t remember the last time I slept in this bed.”

And now he’d been sharing it with _Crowley_. The thought was finally hitting him, the knowledge that Aziraphale was about to get in and that he’d be a scant handful of inches away from him, breathing steadily in the darkness.

Crowley was an idiot, and a massive one at that.

He rolled to the side, trying to keep his treacherous body under control. The very last thing he needed now was to pop a hard-on.

“’s just a bed, angel,” he grumbled, trying to sound reassuring, and not at all busy chasing every filthy fantasy he’d ever had about Aziraphale out of his suddenly very excited brain. “Don’t think too much ‘bout it.”

Aziraphale hummed. The bed barely gave under his weight, but Crowley felt the shift of the mattress down to his very core.

“Perhaps you’re right,” Aziraphale conceded, shuffling as well under the covers. He wriggled a little, and then the room was plunged into absolute darkness.

The silence stretched on, slow and sticky like molasses. It felt as though there was something missing, like a note still hanging in the air. Crowley could nearly _taste_ the tension of it. Aziraphale was so proper that he would’ve said good night, if that had been the end of their little interaction, and the fact that he hadn’t was probably as good a sign as any that he still had something to say, and was trying to find the right words for it. It wasn’t a particularly relaxing thought to have, and coupled with his painful awareness of Aziraphale’s closeness, Crowley was pretty much lying in bed as stiff as a board waiting for the other shoe to drop. He could hear the gentle whisper of Aziraphale’s breathing, feel the very warmth of his body like a wave lapping at his spine. Aziraphale’s most minute shift rippled through him like a seismic wave, and the scent of him was intoxicating, so up close. The smell of his cologne was gone, replaced by the scent of some generic shampoo and clean, soft skin.

Crowley couldn’t tell how long he’d laid in the darkness, drinking in the proximity, when Aziraphale finally spoke. They’d been there long enough that his eyes had got used to the faint light filtering through the curtains, though, dipping the room in thick shadows instead of complete darkness.

“Crowley...” Aziraphale whispered, so softly that Crowley would’ve missed it, if he hadn’t been utterly focused on him. “Are you still awake?”

“Hmm?” Crowley mumbled, even though he was as far away from sleep as a hyperactive Pomeranian on the verge of a psychotic break. “What is it?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer immediately. Crowley couldn’t tell if he was hesitating or merely stalling, but eventually he went on with it.

“You’ve been wondering about my name, haven’t you?”

Crowley had actually been wondering whether he could roll over and pretend he was asleep to snuggle closer, at some point during the night, but sure, he’d been wondering about that, too.

“...well,” he grumbled, unsure about how to tackle the issue, “a little. But you don’t have to tell me anything, if you don’t want to. If you say your name is Aziraphale, your name is Aziraphale, as far as I’m concerned.”

That got him a long, thick silence. Crowley was about to forget all about it when Aziraphale’s voice rang again in the still quiet.

“My mother is one of the world’s leading experts in Biblical Studies, you know,” Aziraphale murmured, low and soft like a secret, “which is why, I guess, she thought fitting to give her children the names of angels. Metatron was the voice of God, Sandalphon laid waste to Sodom and Gomorrah, and Gabriel was the Archangel who announced to the Holy Mary that she was to be the receptacle for the divine conception.” A short break, like a breath in the still darkness. “I’m not sure what happened with me. Maybe she got bored. Either way, she decided to take a break from her angelic spawn. But then she must have reconsidered, since there came Michael, the Archangel who trampled Lucifer under his foot.”

There was some sort of old anger in Aziraphale’s voice, something that had little to do with a name. Something that had latched onto it because there was nothing else there to latch onto, really.

Crowley understood, because he knew. He knew it on a deep, intimate level. He’d felt it lap at his skin, the dismissal, the neglect.

He said nothing, waiting for Aziraphale to go on. To let the poison drip off his tongue.

“Aaron Zachariah Fell,” Aziraphale whispered, harsh and full of shame. “That’s my name, my _real_ name. Aaron, Moses’ spokesman, and Zachariah, the father of John the Baptist. Important only insofar as their relations to someone else. No roles in their own rights. Nobodies. Shadows on the sidelines.” His voice was shaking, the anger twisting, shaping up teeth. “I was so disappointed when I found out. So I thought, I would choose my own name. I’d make an angel out of myself. I had no idea that’s not how it works.”

Another pause, choked full of things not said. Crowley looked over his shoulder to try to get a good look at him, but Aziraphale was curled on his side, facing away from him.

“I found out about the Guardian of the Eastern Gate in one of Mother’s books. Aziraphale. It felt like a revelation, you know. A. Z. Fell sounded so much like Aziraphale, it couldn’t be a coincidence. I showed the book to my mother and pointed the name to her. I said: ‘That’s me. I’m the Guardian of the Eastern Gate’. And she answered, well. She said, ‘that’s nice, dear’. I was six and that was the closest thing to approval that she’d ever given me, so I decided that I’d be Aziraphale, from that day on. I thought she was proud of me, for finding out my true name all by myself.” A humourless laugh, something spiking and grinding in the dark like a haunted animal. “Gabriel corrected me on the error of my ways, of course, but it was too late by then. I was Aziraphale, and I wasn’t going to change.”

Crowley said nothing. If he opened his mouth, he knew, he would break the tight control he was keeping upon himself, and chase Gabriel down with the Bentley’s jack in hand.

“I should’ve outgrown it, I guess,” Aziraphale mused, with such a small, abashed voice that Crowley felt his heart squeeze painfully in his chest. “But Mother wasn’t exactly generous with her praises, and when I realised she had been barely listening, I’d been Aziraphale for so long that Aaron just... felt wrong. Like something given to somebody else.”

Crowley wanted nothing more than to roll over and gather Aziraphale close, but he wasn’t sure he was allowed, he wasn’t sure Aziraphale even wanted that, right then and there. Crowley knew very well what was like opening up old wounds and letting the bad blood trickle out. Everything else felt a little chaotic for a while, difficult to keep in check. Easy gestures became impossible to translate, like a foreign language temporarily forgotten. Oh, he knew.

(_“What do your friends call you? Az? Zira?”_

_“My friends call me Aziraphale.”_

It was terrible how much more meaning things he’d barely paid attention to were gaining, now that Crowley had a little more context. He wondered how much heartbreak was hidden under Aziraphale’s skin, and how much of it had been resonating to his own well before they even had the chance of talking about it, like waves with matching frequency.)

“...and I call you angel,” Crowley murmured, in a quiet, careful voice. “I’m sorry, Aziraphale. I can stop, if you want.”

The silence seemed to weigh a ton in the hushed room, stretching on and on for small pockets of eternity, until finally Aziraphale spoke up again.

“Why?” he asked, honey-sweet and so unbearably gentle that Crowley felt his very bones ache with it. “I wasn’t too keen on it at first, I must confess, but now I happen to think it’s rather lovely.”

Crowley closed his eyes, the tenderness unbearable.

“I was wondering about something, too,” Aziraphale went on, his voice turning light, brushing against Crowley’s skin like fingertips. “What does the J stand for? You never said.”

“Huh?” was Crowley’s clever answer.

“Your name,” Aziraphale patiently elaborated. “You said Anthony J. Crowley. To Gabriel. What does that J stand for?”

“Uuh, er, well,” Crowley floundered. He hadn’t really thought about it, at the moment. It’d come out naturally. He should’ve known Aziraphale would notice. “Nothing, really. It’s just a J. It’s not even in my papers. I just throw it in when I introduce myself ‘cause it sounds cool.”

After what Aziraphale had told him, it sounded so painfully idiotic that Crowley pondered hiding his head under the covers and never coming out as a coping mechanism. He must’ve come across as either pathetic or downright insensitive, and Aziraphale would probably be offended at best and disgusted at worst.

He was already working on his apology when he heard Aziraphale’s laugh, clear and tinkling like a silver bell.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale chuckled, soft and so deeply amused that Crowley couldn’t help but smile into his pillow. Aziraphale’s mirth was impossibly contagious. “That’s the most stupid thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Why, thank you,” Crowley grumbled, doing his very best not to sound as peeved as he actually was.

“Don’t be mad,” Aziraphale soothed him. “I think it’s cute. Daft, but cute.”

“_Cute_,” Crowley hissed. Sure, that was exactly what he’d been aiming for, dressing in black clothes so tight he had to swing his hips at every step because it was too bloody difficult to walk normally in them. To be _cute_. Teddy-bear cute.

How nice.

“Have I offended your bleak, dark soul?” Aziraphale chuckled, quite obviously keeping himself barely in check from laughing out loud. “How about charming, instead?”

“’s better, I guess,” Crowley grumbled, kick-starting an honest-to-god _giggle_ from Aziraphale.

“Charmingly daft. It suits you.”

“...just go to sleep, angel.”

Aziraphale’s amused chuckle took its sweet time to die off, but Crowley couldn’t really say he minded.


	12. Chapter 12

Crowley slept poorly and fitfully, that night. However much he liked to muse about feigning sleep to roll over and cuddle up to Aziraphale, to touch him in any way, in reality he was terrified of doing just so, and spent half the time balancing his body on the very edge of the bed, as far away from Aziraphale as physics and a queen-sized mattress allowed, and the other half slipping in and out of sleep like a nervous cat. The last thing he wanted was to be gifted with yet another atrociously awkward morning after. He’d had his fair share of those already, and he wasn’t particularly keen on sharing one with Aziraphale. He didn’t really want to know what the other man would do or think, finding out that Crowley had taken advantage of his sleep to try and coil himself around him so tightly that it would take a huge pair of pruning shears to be able to set him free again.

Crowley had fallen into a light doze, by the time he felt the mattress shift under him, and heard a soft gasp fill the room. He mumbled an unintelligible protest deep in his throat, clutching at his pillow and refusing to take in the sunlight trickling through the curtains, or the fact that Aziraphale was obviously very awake and pattering about. It was comfortably warm under the covers, and Crowley had never been very good at leaving his nice toasty nest to expose his naked skin to the bracing morning air. He tried to burrow further under the duvet, but the movement seemed to attract Aziraphale’s attention.

“Crowley?” he called, a bit urgently, but gently enough. “Are you awake?”

Well, that was a huge overstatement of the current situation, but Crowley could admit to being somewhere in the realm of cogent.

“Mmmmhrrph,” he grumbled, realising belatedly that it probably wasn’t a word, and then tried again: “Sort of. ‘s something wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong,” Aziraphale rushed to reassure him, just as his voice told exactly the opposite. “It’s just, well, it’s almost half past seven.”

And that was wonderful news, on a Saturday morning, because it meant he’d get to sleep at least another five hours before even considering crawling back into reality. Crowley was about to say so, when the harried tone of Aziraphale’s voice slowly trickled through his thick skull.

“Is that not good?” Crowley grumbled, trying to force himself to take a peek from under the covers and at least face the light of day. His brain and body seemed to be most offended by the suggestion, and had no qualms about letting him know.

“No, yes, of course it’s good, it’s just...”

A pause. Crowley could almost _see_ Aziraphale fretting, wringing his hands. He scrunched one eye half-open, and there was Aziraphale, looming over him in his ridiculous tartan pyjama, fretting and wringing his hands.

“Just?” Crowley encouraged him, feeling more and more awake by the minute. Even if he’d never appreciate waking up in general and waking up on cold mornings in particular, he could get used to Aziraphale’s sleep-mussed hair and rosy skin as the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes.

_Crowley. You sad, miserable twit. When will you learn not to do these sorts of things to yourself?_

“We usually have breakfast at eight. My family, that is. I...” Aziraphale hesitated, his soft blue eyes looking troubled. Crowley nearly reached out and took those fluttering hands in his own, his sleepy brain wishing for nothing more than for Aziraphale to stop fretting and simply join him under the covers, where it was warm and soft and especially where Crowley’s cock, which had no particular hang-ups about being roused at the crack of dawn, was half-hard. “You’re a guest,” Aziraphale declared in a subdued murmur, “so you don’t have to do anything, you can sleep in if you want. But I think I should go, it’d be best.”

“Breakfast at eight on a Saturday morning?” Crowley groaned, rolling on his front and squashing his flagging hard-on against the mattress. He was well on his way to alertness, by now, and resigned to get up at any moment. “What’s wrong with you people?”

“Mother has never believed in lying in, and Metatron has never been very good at forming his own opinions,” Aziraphale chuckled, and Crowley was sort of flabbergasted to hear for the very first time a genuine dig to one of his tosser siblings coming directly from Aziraphale’s lips. “You have no idea how disquieting it is, to hear your mother speaking every time your brother opens his mouth.”

That was enough to bring back to the forefront of Crowley’s mind what exactly they’d be facing, once they came out of Aziraphale’s room.

“Do we have to go?” Crowley all but whined, not particularly eager to get shredded to ribbons by a bunch of snobbish wankers so early in the morning after a rather shite night. “Couldn’t we have breakfast in bed or something?”

He knew he was being a bit bratty, making requests while being a guest in somebody else’s house, but once the idea had popped into his sleep-addled mind, it’d sounded too enticing not to try. He had never considered before munching on toast in bed with Aziraphale, slowly waking up together and getting crumbles everywhere, but he suddenly wanted to see for himself what it’d be like.

Crowley rubbed his face against the pillow, suddenly very awake and a bit disquieted. He was used to craving sex, to craving the intimacy of touch, but that was rather new. He wasn’t sure he liked it.

Aziraphale sighed.

“You’re a guest, my dear, you don’t have to come with me,” he answered, in such a gentle voice that it reached Crowley deep and grasped tight. “Stay here and get some rest. Mr. Young will get something ready for you, when you come down. I’ll probably be somewhere around the house, if you need me.”

“I said _we_,” Crowley pointed out, before his brain could catch up with his mouth and inform him that that was a very, very bad idea. “Can’t _we_ stay? Just a bit longer?”

That got him a long, complicated sort of silence. When it stretched past comfortable, Crowley resolved to roll to his side and throw a good look at Aziraphale’s face. There was something in there that was troubled and tense and a little frozen, like the eyes of a hare caught in a snare, and Crowley sat up with a frown, covers slipping down to his waist and exposing his barely-covered torso to the cool morning air. He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to chase the last shards of sleep away.

“’s ok, angel,” he yawned at last, feeling a bit guilty and rather ashamed for having pushed Aziraphale in that position with his whining. Aziraphale probably didn’t want his fake partner to look like a lazy pig, but he was too courteous to say it out loud. “Here, I’m awake. Let me wash up a bit and I’ll be ready in a minute.”

“Thank you, my dear”, Aziraphale answered, so softly that Crowley had to wave the kindness away. It was embarrassing, being thanked so warmly for behaving like an adult instead of a spoiled brat in his old age.

“’s nothing,” he stammered, swinging his legs off the bed and relishing the feeling of a plush carpet under his bare feet, instead of the cold wooden floor. “Which bathroom should I use?”

“Take the en suite, dear, I’ll get the guest bathroom.”

Crowley nodded, awkwardly standing up. He was aware of Aziraphale’s lingering gaze, but he was too rattled to stretch and flex his thin frame to look enticing. He wasn’t sure _why_ he was rattled, but rattled he was. He went to the antique armoire and looked at his meagre selection of clothes. He’d figured he’d spend most of his time there in a suit, so he’d packed precious little else in regards to everyday clothes. He turned to Aziraphale.

“Should I wear a suit?”

Aziraphale’s eyes snapped up to his face with an almost started kind of look. He blinked at Crowley, as though he was trying to make sense of his question.

“A suit?” Aziraphale repeated, a bit hazily, before quickly regaining focus. “No, I don’t think that’s necessary. I mean, everyone else probably will, but... well. I was sort of hoping to show you the grounds, if I managed to squeeze in the time, and I don’t think trampling about in the mud with a suit would be a good idea.”

Crowley felt something warm and sticky unfurl in his chest. Aziraphale probably wanted nothing more than to escape from his family for a bit, but the idea that he’d make time for _Crowley_ was simply too wondrous to be brushed off.

People did not make time for Crowley. They let him know when they were free, and expected Crowley to act accordingly. That someone would actually be willing to shuffle things around to make space for him was an act of such precious, harrowing kindness that Crowley felt it plunge deep into his skin, into his flesh, filling up those hollow places into his chest to which Crowley had got so used throughout the years that he’d all but forgotten they were there.

A stroll through the park alone with Aziraphale would also be something quite nice to look forward to, while being slowly roasted like a spitted pig by his terrible family.

“Alright,” Crowley answered. His voice came out in a low, oddly subdued kind of murmur, and he cleared his throat with a spike of embarrassment, as he reached for the one solitary henley he’d packed with his suit. It was a light grey, which Crowley found rather sober, and it worked well with the black jeans and waistcoat from the day before. He considered keeping his sunglasses, this time, but he quite liked the way Aziraphale kept looking at his naked face, and it pleased him to know that the bunch of tossers downstairs would be privy to every single shade of jeering smugness flitting through his eyes.

“A, er, a suit would be quite all right for dinner, though,” Aziraphale piped up, sounding oddly chagrined, as though that was in some way his fault. “It should be a rather busy affair, with some of the guests already coming in today.”

“No problem, angel,” Crowley reassured him, with a toothy grin. He _did_ want to dress up a bit for Aziraphale, after all. He didn’t do it very often, but he liked the idea of being able to shift into whatever style he chose on a whim. It usually shocked everyone around, and Crowley found being unpredictable quite a titillating concept.

Half an hour later, they were walking down the stairs, once again close enough they almost touched.

(Almost, but not quite.)

Aziraphale was wearing some dark pressed trousers and a tight waistcoat that made Crowley want to grab his sides and just grind his cock against that lovely arse. The way he found himself gravitating towards the man was absurd, and bewildering, and absolutely impossible to resist. He wanted to slip a hand between those thighs and grab Aziraphale’s cock, gently, as he pressed his nose against that sweet spot behind Aziraphale’s ear and humped that delectable arse until he came. He wondered if Aziraphale would arch his back against him, sinking a hand into his hair and pouring filthy nothings into his ear as Crowley ground hard into him, and took, took, and took. He wondered if Aziraphale would still be hard and weeping and perfectly in control as Crowley fell apart around him, caving in like a house of cards.

He forced himself back to present through sheer force of will, as Aziraphale opened the door of the dining room with something close to a grimace on his face. Crowley wasn’t a veritable trove of good ideas at any time of the day, but even he knew that walking to a breakfast table with an erection wasn’t exactly genius insight.

Everyone was already there, as they made their subdued entrance. The same people from the day before, sitting at the same places, wearing almost the same clothes. It made for the oddest sense of _déjà vu_ Crowley had ever experienced in his entire life. An error-in-the-matrix sort of feeling. It was disquieting. Especially when the entire table turned in unison to stare at them.

Metatron, who already looked harried and positively cranky at eight in the morning, was the first to break that uneasy spell.

“Good morning,” he greeted them, without suggesting in any way that the morning was, in fact, good. He didn’t seem particularly overjoyed at seeing them, but then again, he hadn’t seemed particularly overjoyed at sitting at the same table with his other siblings either. “Sit down. We were just about to have breakfast.”

The man was a veritable bundle of enthusiasm, nothing to say about that. He was also way more pleasant than Gabriel and his fake, overexcited smile.

“Good morning” he boomed, possibly unaware that Aziraphale and Crowley were already out of bed and in the same room with him, and hell-bent on making sure they could hear him from the other side of the house. “We didn’t expect you to be here on time, today! Well done, little brother!”

Aziraphale tried to smile at that extremely unsubtle gibe, but it came out like an odd, looped sort of grimace. Before he could think better of it, Crowley took hold of his elbow, pulling him gently towards the places that had been set for them.

“Come, Aziraphale,” Crowley murmured, pointedly using his chosen name. Aziraphale did not look at him, but he allowed Crowley to steer him along, and sat close to Sandalphon without lifting his eyes and with the same meek, vaguely ashamed kind of smile plastered upon his face.

“I hope you got a good night sleep, Aaron, because this is going to be quite a day,” Gabriel commented, looking at Crowley up and down as he sat by Aziraphale’s side. Crowley felt dimly grateful that he’d decided to tie a black scrap of a scarf around his neck to cover a bit the deep low cut of his henley, in a ditch effort of protecting the impressionable masses against such a scandalous display of skin. He also pondered whether Gabriel kept using Aziraphale’s old name in a calculated dig or out of simple disregard, but the conclusion he reached was that it didn’t really matter, since Gabriel turned out to be a massive twit either way.

“I’m here to help,” Aziraphale softly replied, as he unfolded his napkin over his legs with much more concentration than what was strictly necessary.

“Wonderful,” Michael interjected, clearly having enough of Gabriel’s sad efforts at a pissing contest in which he was the only participant. “The catering service I’ve hired should be here soon, and they’ll need some help to set up camp for tomorrow. I thought you could take care of that, if you’re not otherwise preoccupied.”

The supercilious glance she set on Crowley spoke volumes about what she thought about Aziraphale’s preoccupations for the day. Crowley had an inkling that Aziraphale’s family viewed him as some sort of sex toy Aziraphale had dug out God knew where and dragged to a proper family reunion in defiance of all laws of decorum and basic common sense, a bit as if he’d suctioned a dildo onto the dinner table. It should’ve been hilarious, except that it wasn’t. Crowley was tired of being a thing that could be chucked away at will.

“I’m... I’m not,” Aziraphale weakly replied. “Otherwise preoccupied, that is. You have my full attention. I’ll deal with the catering service. Anything to help.”

Crowley hid his hands in his lap, clenched into fists. He hated how small Aziraphale sounded, hated that his family could make him feel that way. He wanted nothing more than to take him by the hand and drag him to Dover, walk him up to the cliffs. Crowley had never been there either, but he’d love to discover the place with Aziraphale.

“Lovely,” Michael said, with a sharp sort of smile. “I’m counting on you, Aaron.”

“We all are,” Uriel added, quietly menacing.

Aziraphale dipped his head again, and didn’t answer.

The conversation moved onto more practical topics, after that little bout of rounding up on Aziraphale. Crowley took advantage of the general lack of attention thrown their way to brush his fingers against Aziraphale’s elbow in a silent show of support. He felt foolish touching someone that way, like a dog begging for attention, but he didn’t like seeing Aziraphale so closed off within himself, and didn’t know how else to reach him. He was resignedly waiting for a rebuff, and he felt something shuddering painfully in his chest when Aziraphale turned fully to smile at him, soft and warm and grateful. Crowley fought the sudden temptation to run his fingers along Aziraphale’s forearm, brushing his wrist, tickling his palm, and focused on his breakfast instead. He nearly jumped out of his seat when he felt Aziraphale’s knee bump against his, and turned just enough to shoot him a toothy grin as Aziraphale pressed his lower leg against Crowley’s.

“How adorable,” Sandalphon scoffed under his breath from Aziraphale’s other side, loud enough for them to hear him. Aziraphale ducked his head almost into his plate with shame painted all over his fine features, and Crowley bestowed his most fearful glare upon the nosy twit. Sandalphon stared blankly at him for a moment, obviously too stupid to understand the concept of silent threats, and then went back to his eggs and bacon with a shrug.

Everyone seems to disperse rather quickly, after breakfast. It was pretty clear that no one expected or wished for Crowley to help, and the best he could do with his time would be to stay out of the way and possibly out of sight as well.

Aziraphale managed to exchange barely a handful of words with him, before being kidnapped by his siblings. Crowley watched him go a little dejectedly, thinking about whatever he was going to do in such a huge mansion all by himself for an entire day. Exploring was the obvious answer, but he wasn’t entirely sure how polite it would be, nosing about in someone else’s house without permission. Well, he guessed he _did_ have Aziraphale’s permission, in a way, but he doubted his siblings would see it that way. Or give a toss about Aziraphale’s permission in the first place. That too should’ve been irksome, but Crowley was surprisingly all right with it. Permission to nose about could only be given by the owner of a place, and Aziraphale didn’t belong there, in that huge house-museum lost into the woods, old and silent and full of sad memories. Aziraphale belonged to a city bustling with life, full of quaint little coffee shops and a myriad of restaurants, not to a cemetery in the middle of nowhere. Aziraphale belonged to London. With him.

What a sapless, hopeless fool he was. A _romantic_ fool. The worst kind.

Eventually, Crowley decided that a bit of exploring wouldn’t harm anyone. It wasn’t like he’d made such a great impression upon Aziraphale’s siblings, after all. If they chalked him down as a meddlesome busybody, well, it wouldn’t be the worst opinion they’d formed about him. He’d leave every locked room alone, but he figured that any place with an open door couldn’t be hiding such important secrets that they would be endangered by Crowley’s mere presence.

After three hours of aimless wandering, Crowley had discovered way more dining rooms (or at least rooms with a table in it) than any family had any business owning, quite a few rather modern bathrooms, a library, a couple of small studies that looked reasonably lived in, several living rooms, an overabundance of narrow corridors and long halls, and something that looked oddly like a contemporary conference room. He’d also stumbled into the kitchen, where an army of people was busy pottering about, and drew the attention of none other than the infamous Mrs. Young. She’d recognised him on sight even if he’d never met her before, correctly guessing who he was and whom he was with. It wasn’t a particularly difficult leap to make, but still.

After half an hour of being entertained more or less willingly by that chattering, vivacious woman, Crowley was forced to admit that she was probably the most pleasant person in the entire house. The fact that she seemed to have a shine for Aziraphale, of course, helped her cause greatly along.

Before he could make an escape (she was pleasant enough, yes, but Crowley wasn’t that great at holding conversations with strangers for long stretches of time, if those strangers weren’t Aziraphale), she bid him to wait with a conspiratorial smirk, and returned with a bottle in her hand. It looked like it’d been dusted regularly, but the glass had the smudgy sort of look of something that had been stored in a cellar for a very long time.

“It’s Châteuneuf-du-Pape,” she confided, shoving the bottle at him together with a pair of tall-stemmed glasses. “Aziraphale has a soft spot for it. It will make for a nice nightcap, after all this running about for the wedding.”

Crowley stared at her with a vaguely bewildered look. It was just one bottle, granted, but it sounded very much as if the nice housekeeper was suggesting him to get Aziraphale all tipsy and relaxed as a reward for having to deal with his family for an extended period of time.

He liked her, he decided. She sounded like a fine strategist. And she’d used Aziraphale’s favoured name.

“Thank you,” he told her, with the warmest tone of voice he’d used with anyone but Aziraphale since he’d stepped foot in that blasted house.

She phished at him, that conspiratorial smile of hers still plastered all over her face, and urged him to run along.

“It’s almost lunchtime, and Aziraphale will come looking for you soon. You’d better go and hide that bottle. It should be a surprise.”

Crowley couldn’t agree more. He trampled upon the stairs, delighting in the infernal racket he made stomping upon the ancient wood, and stocked the bottle and the glasses into his half-empty travel bag.

Someone had taken the time to make the bed and air the room a bit, and Crowley felt absurdly guilty at having someone pick up after him. He was the hopeless nutcase that made up his own bed whenever he rented a place, after all, even if he wasn’t always so diligent at home. He wasn’t good at being looked after; he wasn’t used to it. Which was the reason some of his interactions with Aziraphale had been both slightly unnerving and hopelessly enticing. He wasn’t sure what he thought of the entire thing, how he felt about it, but there was no point in dissecting his mind when it was unlikely the problem would present itself again or with any relevant frequency. He shrugged the entire quandary away and headed downstairs, unsure about where he could find Aziraphale. The house had been steadily filling up with people running this or that way like a pack of army ants, and the last thing Crowley wanted was to disturb one of them and get bitten for his trouble.

Eventually, it was Aziraphale who found him. Crowley was aimlessly roaming the great hall on the ground floor when he heard a known voice call his name, and turned towards a rather fretful and smiling Aziraphale with a grin of his own.

“Crowley, there you are!” Aziraphale exclaimed, running up to him. “We’re going to get a spot of lunch. Would you like to join us?”

Crowley wasn’t particularly hungry, after the full breakfast, but he could pluck at some food. And he had no intention of leaving Aziraphale alone with his shite family longer than what was strictly necessary.

He was also dying of boredom, which always worked like a charm to prod him into action.

“Sure thing, angel,” he answered, sticking his hands into his pockets and following Aziraphale into the dining room. “Is everything alright?”

“Everything _will_ be all right, which is almost the same thing, isn’t it?” Aziraphale answered with a sigh. “Oh, I’m being snippy. Of course everything is all right.”

Crowley wasn’t particularly convinced by that answer, but he decided to leave it as it was.

Lunch turned out to be quite a rushed, busy affair. Everyone was obsessing over the preparations for the wedding, discussing details and timetables and seating places, and nobody had time or energy to spare for Aziraphale’s terrible life decisions. Which worked just as well for Crowley, since he didn’t know how much more pained dejection he could take from Aziraphale. He barely managed to stop himself from reaching out to him twice in the hour they spent at the dinner table, and soon after Aziraphale was sucked back again in that mad swirl of wedding hysteria and disappeared with Michael God knew where.

Crowley sighed in resignation, ignoring Sandalphon’s obnoxious smirk, and went upstairs to play with his phone.

He was just halfway through the 145th level of Candy Crush when Aziraphale showed up, looking as wound up as a bow string and one step away from descending into a murder frenzy.

“You’re here,” Aziraphale sighed, blinking slowly as he looked him up and down. Crowley was sprawled all over the bed, or at least as sprawled as his skin-tight jeans would allow, with his phone in his lap. “Michael wasn’t particularly pleased about it, but she let me go. We could go for a walk before dinner, if you’re amenable.”

Crowley smiled at the notion of Aziraphale holding his ground against his sister just to spend some time with him. It was a warming sort of feeling, reaching deep, with long and winding roots.

He threw his phone aside and jumped on his feet, reaching for his glasses. It looked a bit cloudy outside, but reasonably dry.

“I’ll take my umbrella,” Aziraphale reassured him, following the direction of his gaze. “We can share like last time, if it starts to rain.”

There was a pleased smile on Aziraphale’s face, something a bit shy and a bit sly. Crowley swallowed around the lump in his throat and smiled back.

They walked down the stairs and into the main hall, crowded with a manic army of people busy placing chairs and tables and flowers everywhere. They went to retrieve their coats and Aziraphale’s umbrella and fedora from the cloakroom and then stepped into the equally busy gardens, where white tents and more chairs had been set up for the ceremony. Michael and Uriel were supervising the construction of a raised platform, which Aziraphale told him would eventually support the arch under which they would get married.

“I don’t get why people find this romantic,” Crowley said, as they walked past the harried workers and the vexed couple. “I haven’t seen so much murdering intent since I witnessed a teen boy trying to steal a sweet old lady’s place in a cue. I thought the poor bugger would get nailed to the till by his entrails.”

“Sweet old ladies are a vicious lot,” Aziraphale whispered back to him in a conspiratorial tone, as they stepped deeper into the gardens. The shy, dejected coat that had covered Aziraphale from head to toe within the walls of his childhood house was crumbling away in bits and pieces, as they walked away from that damn house, and soon there was nothing left but the calm, deceptively gentle man Crowley had met in London what felt like centuries before. “And it _will_ be romantic, tomorrow. Or look romantic. Same thing, isn’t it?”

“No, I don’t think it’s the same thing at all,” Crowley answered, without thinking. That got him a long, shrewd side-glance from Aziraphale. Crowley looked away, suddenly grateful for his sunglasses.

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale all but purred. The words, the _voice_, slithered down Crowley’s spine like a shiver. “Are _you_ a romantic?”

Crowley scoffed.

“Of course not,” he lied, knowing that he was lying. He wasn’t the sort who thought about holding hands and lying together in a nest of covers. He _wasn’t_. Or he didn’t want to be, which was almost the same thing.

“Is that what you want? To be wooed?” Aziraphale murmured, a charged, electric spark in his voice.

Crowley nearly short-circuited on the spot as Aziraphale took his naked hand in his gloved one and brought it slowly but pointedly to his lips.

“Is this what you like?” Aziraphale whispered, his lips ghosting against Crowley’s knuckles at every word.

It was too much. Crowley knew how to deal with sex, he knew how to deal with attraction, but that was uncharted territory, and it was way, way too close. He snatched his hand away, heart hammering in his chest. Swallowing was difficult, and gazing into Aziraphale’s piercing eyes even more so. He looked away, unwittingly stroking with his thumb the spot on his knuckles that Aziraphale had kissed so very softly. He realised what he was doing, and shoved his hands back into his pockets.

“Ngh, well, I, well, that’s... that’s ridiculous, angel,” he stammered, like the absolute git that he was.

Aziraphale didn’t seem convinced in the slightest.

“Is it, now?” he hummed, sounding almost testy for a moment, before finally, blessedly deciding to let go. Crowley didn’t know whether to run away or to kick himself, but he couldn’t deal with that sort of kindness. He had no experience to draw on, no understanding on how to take it or, even worse, how to keep it if he accepted it. He was terrified of getting used to something that would be taken away from him.

What on earth had possessed Aziraphale to go for his hand instead of his cock? Crowley would’ve known how to deal with that. Except he wasn’t sure that was what he wanted, either. Well, he _did_ want that, obviously, but not that way.

He wasn’t making any sense even in his own mind.

Luckily enough, Aziraphale didn’t seem to expect any sort of conversation from him. He looked lost in thoughts, judging by what Crowley could surmise from a few lightning-quick side-glances, but neither angry nor dejected. He seemed quite content to walk silently by his side and enjoy the quiet, much as Crowley himself. The precious, soothing calm that Aziraphale exuded when he was relaxed and satisfied was back with an extra kick, and Crowley revelled in it, allowing it to brush against his skin like a lover’s touch.

They’d walked all the way to the crumbling wall at the edge of the property, when Aziraphale spoke again.

“We could follow the wall, and take the gravel path back to the main entrance,” he suggested, looking up at him from under the brim of his fedora. “What do you think?”

“’s fine by me, angel,” Crowley distractedly answered. He didn’t really care where they went. He just wanted to bask in Aziraphale’s presence a little longer. He wasn’t the same man out there as he was inside that blasted house, and Crowley had _missed_ him, had missed that happier, self-confident version of him that his siblings seemed to be able to crush under their heels. He’d take any version of Aziraphale he could get, but he hated seeing such a bright, wonderful man turning himself small and unobtrusive to make space for his horrible family. He _hated_ it.

Aziraphale smiled at him, soft and bright, and reached out to take his hand. Crowley tried uselessly to swallow. Such tenderness was devastating. It made him want both to revel in it and climb a wall. He knew he wasn’t great at taking gentleness, but that was... well. It was ludicrous. He’d spent the best part of the previous weeks thinking in graphic details about Aziraphale buggering him into the next century, and now he was shrinking like a Victorian maiden from a bit of hand-holding. There was such a rioting chaos inside his head, right then and there, that he could hardly function. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do. He didn’t think that dropping on his knees and going for Aziraphale’s belt was the socially accepted protocol for the situation, but that was pretty much how Crowley dealt with intimacy.

“Is this all right, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, gentle and ridiculously concerned, as though Crowley was some sort of delicate violet instead of a grown man nearly in his forties. It was preposterous. And yet, he could barely breathe, the contact like a brand on his skin.

“Of course, why shouldn’t it be?” Crowley rasped in reply, not sure what to do with himself. His limbs felt too long, ungainly and difficult to control. It was almost like he’d forgotten how to walk properly, as if he hadn’t had almost four decades of experience on the matter over his shoulders.

Aziraphale smiled again at him, and stroked Crowley’s knuckles with his thumb without saying a word. Crowley looked away, and allowed Aziraphale to lead the way.

* * *

“That’s the needle,” Aziraphale commented, out of the blue. They had reached the gravel path, and began their slow walk back to the house. Crowley’s hand was still safely ensconced in Aziraphale’s gentle grasp, while the iron-tip of the umbrella Aziraphale was clutching on the other side marked every step with a raspy thud.

“Oh?” Crowley mumbled, unwillingly dragged out of his sedated, hazy state of mind by that odd non-sequitur. The sky was getting progressively darker above their heads, and Crowley could think of very few things he’d appreciate less in that exact moment than returning to the blasted house.

“The gate,” Aziraphale elaborated, pointing the tip of his umbrella to the stern pyramidal building rising above the gravel path. It was an odd thing, with a cross on top and an arch on the bottom, big enough for a car to drive through. Hell, they’d obviously driven through the thing, the night before. It’d been so dark and Crowley had been so unnerved that he had barely noticed. “It was built a few centuries ago, as the main gate of the property. Then, one of my ancestors bought some more land, rebuilt part of the wall and replaced the old gate with something with a bit more theatrics to it. But the name stuck.”

“The name?” Crowley repeated, as bright as a cloudy midnight sky.

Aziraphale smirked up at him, seemingly amused by Crowley’s dazzling display of intellect.

“Needle’s Eye,” Aziraphale explained, resuming the gentle stroking of his thumb across Crowley’s knuckles. It was a slow, soothing touch. Crowley barely refrained from squirming at the tenderness of it, at the deliberate, almost pointed way Aziraphale was handling him. He wondered if Aziraphale was doing it on purpose. Either way, it was difficult to concentrate on whatever Aziraphale was talking about, but Crowley would do his best. “That’s how the gate was called. It’s just a folly, now, but the estate inherited the name.”

“I see,” Crowley answered, because he was pretty sure he was supposed to say something if he wanted to be part of a conversation, and not simply rewire every single connection between his body and his brain to focus on the firm, steady touch of Aziraphale’s gloved thumb across his naked skin. He thought about standing still and allowing those hands to slip under his clothes and trace the shapes of his body, to explore him, deeply, intimately, until there wasn’t a single inch of him that Aziraphale didn’t own.

Such an odd thought to have. It should’ve been unsettling, except that he couldn’t really say why, at that specific moment.

Aziraphale led him through the archway. It was a huge, looming thing, built out of roughly-hewed stone bricks that showed the signs of passing time. It looked graceless and ungainly, brutally dissonant from the carefully mown lawn and the delicate white of the gravel path. There was a double set of stone seats carved into the sides of the archway, barely deep enough for an adult to perch on them. Aziraphale took a seat, pulling Crowley along.

“This was one of my favourite places, as a child,” Aziraphale recounted, voice low and a little far-off. They were sitting so close that Crowley could feel the solid shape of Aziraphale’s thigh pressed alongside his own, warm and subtly comforting. “My siblings didn’t understand my predilection for the gardens, but I liked it here. The house felt... suffocating, at times. There was a certain freedom to be found, out of its walls. And our gardener was the kindest man I’d ever met. He had time for me when my mother didn’t. He’d listen to me ramble for hours, praise me when I got some accomplishment at school. I used to pretend he was my long-lost uncle.”

Crowley, who did have some experience with uncles, didn’t think they were all such a gift to the world, but he also hadn’t had the kind of childhood Aziraphale had. And he could certainly understand how that blasted house could feel like a choking weight around Aziraphale’s neck. He’d seen it by himself, the way it pressed down on Aziraphale, grinding his bones.

He tried to say something gentle, something soothing, but Aziraphale had pulled his hand into his lap and was tracing circles with his thumb over his palm, and coherence seemed like an unattainable goal in those specific circumstances.

“That is... incredibly sad,” was everything Crowley could manage to cobble up. He knew he could’ve done better, if only he’d taken his hand away from Aziraphale’s firm grasp, but that would’ve meant ending that gentle, subtly compelling touch, and Crowley loathed the thought. He left his hand where it was, instead, and hoped his pitiful remark would be enough.

Aziraphale’s humourless laugh tolled into his ears like a dead bell, shoving him forcefully out of that vaguely foggy state of mind.

“Wait until you hear about the Christmas of ‘87,” Aziraphale scoffed. He was still holding Crowley’s hand in his, but the spell had been broken. Crowley straightened up, feeling a little bewildered and a little lost.

“What happened at _Christmas_, now?” he burst out, not completely sure he wanted to know.

Aziraphale squeezed his hand one last time, before letting it go. The lack of touch hit Crowley like a slap in the face, leaving him reeling.

“Nothing,” Aziraphale answered, pushing himself back to his feet, “leave it. It’s getting late, we’d better go back.”

The change had been so abrupt that Crowley felt a bit unsteady on his feet, as they resumed with a substantial lack of enthusiasm their walk towards the house. He felt as if something had been unscrewed into him and then hastily put back on, a bit crooked and a bit loose, and he was leaking bits of himself all over the place. That serene, quiet state of mind seemed unattainable right now, and he followed Aziraphale in silence.

Crowley could almost _see_ the moment the weight of that old house, of cold stones and colder memories, came crashing upon Aziraphale. He seemed to shrink under it, to become smaller, quieter. To take up less space. Crowley nearly reached out to take his hand again, to give comfort instead of taking it, but he wasn’t sure Aziraphale wanted to be touched right now. He wasn’t looking at Crowley, just walking with some sort of dour determination across the courtyard.

The sky was already dark as they stepped through the door, and most people had left. The main hall looked full to burst, though, and they had to pick their way through elegantly decked tables and drooping festoons of white lace to get to the cloakroom. There were voices ringing throughout the house, coming from somewhere close, but neither of them was in the mood to investigate. They climbed the stairs to Aziraphale’s room, and then went their separate ways to get ready for dinner. Crowley was almost done when someone curtly knocked at the door.

“Come in,” Crowley called distractedly, busy as he was to fix his blood-red tie properly over his white shirt. He was wearing black pressed trousers underneath, and polished black shoes that were unfortunately not nearly as comfortable as his snakeskin boots. His sunglasses were lying on top of Aziraphale’s chest of drawers.

The door opened with a creaking sound, and Aziraphale stepped in. He’d donned a cream-coloured suit, warm and oddly soft, as far as suits went, with a tartan tie tucked neatly into his waistcoat. He stared at Crowley with wide, round eyes, drinking him in.

“Oh,” he breathed, coming closer and smoothing Crowley’s tie down his chest. It felt as if now that he’d started, crossing the impossible distance between them, he couldn’t stop himself from reaching out anymore. “You look very handsome, my dear.”

Crowley was ready for the touch, this time, but it still ricocheted through his flesh like an earthquake. He nearly sighed into it, the thrill of the contact sparking across his skin. All that touching was making him a little insane, revving up his hunger.

“You’re not too bad yourself,” Crowley quipped, reaching out to fix the lapels of Aziraphale’s jacket. He got a shadow of a smile for his trouble, and decided with renewed determination to get them both back to that room and to the bottle of wine hiding in his duffle bag as soon as possible. That harried, haunted look had no business to be on Aziraphale’s face.

“Are you quite ready, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, taking an almost unwilling step back. Crowley tucked his tie into the black waistcoat and buttoned it up, then slipped into his black formal jacket.

“Ready,” he declared. “Let’s go, angel.”

Aziraphale nodded, and preceded him out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Needle%27s_Eye) is the actual Needle's Eye. I discovered it actually existed well after I'd decided to use this name for Aziraphale's family home, and I took it as a sign that I'd chosen well indeed. So there it is, making a cameo.  
If anyone of you who also reads _The Art of Letting Go_ had a feeling of déjà-vu during the last few chapters, yes, it's the same house. Your writer is lazy.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here I am again, to thank you all for being absolutely lovely, the whole lot of you. I cannot even begin to express how much your comments help whenever I’m stuck. If this story is tumbling and rushing ahead faster than anything I’ve ever written, it’s because of you <3

The dining room was significantly fuller than lunchtime, as Aziraphale and Crowley stepped into it. They seemed to be the last to join the table, as usual, and the few looks they got for their trouble did not leave any room for doubt about whether or not their fellow diners had noticed.

The table setting had been slightly shifted, and Crowley found himself seated between Aziraphale and Uriel’s father, who threw him a slightly uncomfortable glance. Crowley couldn’t really blame the fellow–from the look of it, he’d been dragged quite unwillingly into that family drama, not very unlike Crowley himself, and wished for nothing more than to be done with the entire ordeal and leave as soon as possible. Crowley could understand the feeling.

From what Crowley had been able to eavesdrop, amongst the new arrivals there were several friends of Michael and Uriel, a few distant relatives and Sandalphon’s partner, an older woman who looked well in her fifties and who seemed to consider the entire ensemble, including Sandalphon himself, with some sort of vague distaste.

Although the table was far from quiet, it was Gabriel’s family who seemed to be taking up most of the attention. They weren’t particularly loud, with the exception of Gabriel’s random bouts of booming statements with which he appeared determined to reach the portion of his audience that was somewhere up into the rafters, but they seemed to command attention simply by being there. Gabriel’s wife had the faintly plastic look of a movie star or a yoga teacher, tall and pale and blond and somewhat remote, while their children seemed to have been cut out from a magazine and glued onto their chairs. They were sitting in silence between their parents like high-end dolls, with that specific haughty, bored look painted over their handsome faces that only exceptionally privileged people seemed to know how to use without looking either ludicrous or crass.

All in all, the uncomfortable feeling Crowley had been experiencing since he’d stepped foot in that blasted place appeared only to grow exponentially, with the pressure of all those obnoxious people fencing them in like a pack of wolves. Aziraphale seemed to have shrunk down to the ghost of himself, and Crowley was eying a bit wistfully the hands demurely clasped in the man’s lap when Gabriel’s roaring voice made them both almost jump out of their seats.

“Aaron!” he called, loud and obnoxiously cheerful. “There’s something I forgot to tell you. Do you remember the last alumni dinner hosted by our college? The one you didn’t show up to? A pretty bold choice, let me tell you. Everyone kept asking about you, and I had to explain that my little brother had decided that the King’s College of Cambridge deserved his presence less than the London Metropolitan University, after all. You should’ve seen their faces!”

Gabriel started laughing, a rich, perfectly pitched kind of laugh. Only Sandalphon joined in, but then again, most of the people present didn’t seem to think Gabriel’s nattering a very entertaining or interesting affair to begin with, and were happily chattering away ignoring whatever petty feud was going on between the git with the sort of forcefully gleeful smile Crowley normally associated with serial killers and his miserable brother.

(Not that Crowley knew a great lot about serial killers, since his first and foremost reaction to every kind of real-crime show flitting on his telly was a heartfelt _no way in hell_ and a grab for the remote.

He knew that people were crazy. He didn’t need to know which specific brand of crazy was out there, lurking in the darkness with Gabriel’s very unsettling kind of smile plastered all over their faces.)

“Anyway,” Gabriel went on, when it became clear that Aziraphale had no intention of joining the conversation any time soon, “your old supervisor was there. Dr. Duncan, do you remember him? He asked me about you. He was so shocked, when I told him that you ended up as a _librarian_, of all things.”

The absolute wanker. He’d had two days to pull that kind of bullshit on Aziraphale, but he’d chosen that night, with a full table. He wanted it to be as humiliating as possible, in front of as many witnesses as possible.

Crowley wanted to strangle him with his own cream-coloured silk tie.

“A damn shame, he said,” Gabriel went on, his violet eyes sparkling with something like pointed glee. “You could do so much more. He always had a very high opinion of you. It was such a pity to disappoint him.”

Crowley did reach out, this time. He pressed his palm against Aziraphale’s clasped hands, and got his rebuke, when Aziraphale snapped them away. Crowley did his best not to take it personally. It was family; it was bound to be too much. But it still stung.

“It’s not too late, you know,” Gabriel added, slowly and meaningfully, as he swirled the wine into his glass with a look of coy disinterest on his face. “He’d be happy to take you back as his student. Three years and you’d have your doctorate, at the very least. It’s such a shame that you never managed to finish it.”

“I did my master,” Aziraphale finally answered, voice low and full of humiliated shame. “I finished that.”

“Oh, Aaron,” Gabriel sighed, full of long-suffering resignation, “a master is meaningless. Everyone has a master. Even your journalist here probably has one.”

Crowley did his best not to bare his teeth at the condescending smile Gabriel threw his way, but he wasn’t sure how well he managed.

“Never went to university, actually,” Crowley answered, trying not to flinch, trying to hide how close Gabriel was coming to the soft bits that hurt when people jammed a finger into them.

Proper delight started to filter through Gabriel’s plastic smile.

“Never! Well, that’s a proper revelation. I think I finally understand what you see in him, little brother.”

Aziraphale flinched, the dig so blatant it was almost pathetic. He couldn’t hold onto a relationship with the dreamy neurosurgeon, so he’d chosen a partner so inferior that even someone like Aziraphale could feel accomplished in his presence.

Crowley wouldn’t let it hurt. He wouldn’t. Aziraphale might feel the need to win his family’s respect, but they were a bunch of nobodies to Crowley, and they could all die in a fire. He could admit to himself how purposeless, empty and downright pathetic his life was, but he wouldn’t let anyone else use it against him. It was a sad excuse for a life, but it was _his_. It wasn’t some sort of blackened, wizened chunk of flesh floating in a jar to be paraded about for the shock and horror of the educated masses.

“Nothing to say?” Gabriel taunted, his winning smile growing in size. “Well. If you change your mind, let me know. We’ll get you back to university, a _proper_ university, in no time at all.”

And that was apparently the whole point of that sad theatre. Anathema had said that Aziraphale’s shite family thought his job to be a demeaning one, after all. They wanted him to resume his studies and take the bloody doctorate and uphold the family honour. Possibly choose a better partner than Crowley’s poor excuse for one. Ideally his dreamy ex, but Crowley had an inkling that anyone with a fancy job and monthly wages to match would do.

Bunch of bastards, the lot of them.

The grand entrance of Mr. Young with the first entrée, followed by his faithful line of waiters in frocks, worked as a charm to shift the focus of that wretched conversation. There was still too much to do and discuss for the blessed wedding to waste time on the black sheep of the family, and Aziraphale was left alone to pick at his dinner in abashed silence. Crowley pondered about seeking some sort of contact, but the fear of being rejected again kept him from reaching out. He concentrated on his dinner, trying to shake off Gabriel’s little speech like a dog with a coat of rain. It wasn’t easy, the words clinging to him like droplets, but he had some alone time with Aziraphale and a bottle of wine to look forward to. It would be enough. It had to be.

After that cruel dig, Gabriel carried on with his nattering for a while, until a lull in the conversation got him bored enough to try and get a rise out of Crowley.

“Well, _Anthony_, why don’t you tell us a bit about your job?” he asked, with a lilt to Crowley’s name that made it sound like some sort of veiled insult. “I’m sure it would make for a riveting tale.”

Crowley shrugged, a bit pointed and a bit jeering, and gifted the tosser with his best snarky smirk.

“Oh, I’m sure even someone like _you_ can imagine what my job must look like,” he shot back, voice low and calm and almost purring. He was rewarded with a confused look from Gabriel, who clearly wasn’t sure whether he’d been just insulted or not. Crowley answered with an even wider grin.

In the uncertainty of the situation, Gabriel decided that leaving them alone was the best option, and the rest of the dinner was spent in blissful isolation–or that, at least, was Crowley’s perception. He wasn’t sure Aziraphale liked being ignored any more than he liked being picked on, but Crowley had no doubts about which option suited him best. There was only so much digging and not-so-veiled insults towards Aziraphale he could stomach. Not even being able to comfort him made everything even worse.

The wretched dinner seemed to drag on forever, but in reality it lasted barely a couple of hours. Everyone was too tired or worked up to endure that delightful family reunion for long. Soon enough, Uriel and Michael were heading out with their friends, followed suit by Uriel’s parents, Sandalphon’s partner, and then Sandalphon himself, rushing after his better half as though he feared deep down that she’d elope with one of the waiters the moment he looked away. Given the elegance of the woman’s poise, and the across-the-board creepiness of Sandalphon, that didn’t seem too far-fetched a possibility. That left Crowley and Aziraphale alone at the table with Gabriel’s family, since Metatron had taken advantage of the general scurrying off to flee the room, never to be seen again.

“I supposed we’d do well to turn in ourselves,” Gabriel commented, with a warmer, slightly less-posed smile to his children. They hadn’t said a word during the entire dinner, and slid off their chairs just as quietly, following their mother out like well-behaved ducklings. Gabriel’s wife nodded politely to Crowley and Aziraphale on her way out, while Gabriel wished them goodnight with an unctuous, insufferable sort of grin that did exactly nothing to make Crowley wish any less to be able to crack that handsome face in half with his fist.

The silence seemed to weigh a ton in the empty room. Aziraphale had barely lifted his face from the plate to mumble his goodbyes, and now was staring at his empty glass with a glazed sort of look in his eyes. Crowley ached to touch him, but they were treading such treacherous ground that he hesitated to step out of the marked path. Eventually, fortifying himself for a likely rejection, he placed his hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Aziraphale?” he called softly. Since no rejection was forthcoming, he dared squeeze Aziraphale’s shoulder a little, and was rewarded with a far-off, almost lost gaze of those clear blue eyes.

“Yes?”

“They’re all gone,” Crowley pointed out, greedily wishing to be allowed to cup Aziraphale’s cheek in his palm. He wasn’t good with words. He wasn’t good with anything that wasn’t sex, really, but he yearned to reach out to Aziraphale and share with him the comfort of his body with such a deep-seated hunger that left him nearly shaking. “We should go as well, I think.”

Aziraphale blinked up at him, as though he was slowly waking up from some sort of nightmare, and then looked around. They were alone in the great dining room, Mr. Young probably waiting for the premises to be completely vacated before storming the place with his army of waiters.

“Yes,” Aziraphale sighed, tiredly rubbing a hand over his face before moving to stand. “We’d better go.”

Crowley felt the loss of the solid heat of his shoulder like a blow, but he let his hand drop to the side, taking a step back to give the man some space. Aziraphale stood up slowly, noiselessly, making sure to lift the chair slightly when he pushed it off the table to avoid scratching the precious woodwork. Crowley was hit once again unaware by the care Aziraphale employed in those seemingly mundane gestures, the subtle elegance of his bearings. He thought wildly that he wouldn’t mind being handled that way, with the care and the gentleness used to treat something fragile and infinitely precious, and felt his stomach drop at the visceral reaction of his body, at the heat blooming under his skin. He looked away, mouth dry, heart thumping painfully in his chest.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale sighed, stepping closer to take hold of his hand. “That wasn’t easy for you either, was it?”

The idea that Aziraphale could think of _Crowley’s_ distress, after being publicly humiliated by his arsehole brother, was too much to bear. Crowley snatched his hand away, goosebumps rising on his skin. He stifled a shiver, breath catching.

“Don’t worry about me, angel,” he said roughly, already regretting his instinctual rejection of Aziraphale’s soft touch, but unable to take it back. What the hell was wrong with him? He’d yearned to close the distance between them through the entire dinner, and the moment Aziraphale had taken his hand, he had flinched away like a spooked horse.

Luckily enough, Aziraphale didn’t seem particularly taken aback by his nonsensical behaviour. He was smiling at him, even if somewhat dimly, as he let his hand drop to the side.

“Let’s go to bed, my dear,” he murmured, so tender and intimate that Crowley felt every single nerve-ending in his entire body come alive. Aziraphale had very obviously not meant it _that_ way, but Crowley’s brain had very different opinions on the matter, synapses misfiring as a bone-deep shiver rolled down his spine like a gale.

Crowley turned away, rushing to hide his face from those gentle blue eyes and missing his blasted sunglasses something fierce.

“Yes,” he agreed, trying and failing to sound normal, instead of a fretting mess with a strangled sort of voice. “Let’s.”

He led the way, this time, listening to Aziraphale’s steps on the creaking wooden floor to make sure that he was following. Crowley had more or less regained his cool by the time they reached Aziraphale’s room, and was already loosening his tie as he dropped on the bed like a dead weight.

“Uuf,” he groaned, “I feel like I’ve just battled against the forces of evil or something.”

“Just my family, but it’s an understandable mistake to make,” Aziraphale quipped back, startling a laugh out of Crowley. After the careful, guarded way he’d used to introduce Crowley to the wonders that were his relatives, it was always a bit of a surprise to hear that thinly-veiled meanness trickling from his deceitfully soft voice.

Aziraphale smiled at him, something warmer and a little more real, this time.

“I’ll get changed, if you don’t mind,” Aziraphale said, picking up his tartan pyjamas. Someone had taken the time to fold it carefully and place it on his pillow.

“You can use your own bathroom, if you want,” Crowley said with a shrug. “I’m in no rush. I can wait.”

“All right, then,” Aziraphale acquiesced, gathering some more supplies before disappearing into the bathroom.

Crowley waited for the gentle rustle of water to filter through the closed door, then got to his feet and reached for his duffle bag. The bottle of wine and the glasses were still there. Crowley placed the stem glasses on his nightstand and then went to work on the bottle, breaking the seal with the corkscrew he’d snatched from the dinner table. He decided to leave the actual bottle opening for Aziraphale’s return. He thought a bit about choosing a particularly alluring pose to greet Aziraphale with, but the man was taking _forever_ to come back, and Crowley could only hold alluring for so long.

He was lounging on the bed in his trousers, socks and shirt when Aziraphale finally opened the door, busy with a particularly challenging level of Candy Crush.

“Angel, you’re back,” Crowley greeted him, turning off his phone a bit begrudgingly and losing all his points. But the sight of a scrubbed-pink Aziraphale in his tartan pyjamas was well worth it. His hair was even curlier than usual, his smile impossibly soft. Crowley realised that that was how Aziraphale looked fresh out of the shower, and was hit unaware by the tortuous familiarity of it all.

“What’s that?” Aziraphale asked, tilting his head curiously towards the bottle and the glasses.

Crowley smirked widely at him.

“My spoils for the day. You didn’t think I spent the entire morning lounging in bed, did you?”

“I did, actually,” Aziraphale laughed, not particularly apologetic, as he put his clothes away. “That’s what I would’ve done, if I’d been in your place. Hide in here with a book.”

Once again, Crowley was startled by that unsolicited honesty. It was impossibly warming, being trusted like that. Humbling, in a way. Crowley didn’t exactly inspire people to hand over precious, fragile things, and yet there was Aziraphale, easily opening up to something he had kept close to his chest even with Anathema.

“Well, I wouldn’t be a journalist if I wasn’t an obnoxious busybody,” Crowley deflected, looking away. “I explored a little, taking a good look around. Found the kitchen. Your lovely Mrs. Young apparently wanted you to get wasted tonight.”

“One bottle of wine is not enough to get me _wasted_, my dear,” Aziraphale huffed, “especially if I’m sharing it with you.” He stepped closer, picking up the bottle in question and reading the label. “Châteuneuf-du-Pape. Why, it’s my favourite.”

“Mrs. Young has a soft spot for you, I think.”

“She’s always been very kind to me,” Aziraphale distractedly answered, “even if she hasn’t been working for us a very long time. About twenty years, give or take. I didn’t think she’d remember. She hasn’t been seeing much of me, all in all.”

Crowley wasn’t particularly surprised to hear that Aziraphale had managed to make such an impression in such a short time.

What had Anathema said?

_Aziraphale is very lovable._

She was right. He was.

“Well, then. Let’s get pissed. It wouldn’t do to disappoint the nice lady, after all.” Crowley chuckled at the vaguely crossed glance Aziraphale threw his way. “My apologies, I meant tastefully inebriated.”

“You meant exactly what you said, you fiend,” Aziraphale scoffed, but there was a grin somewhere in there. “You’d get us thoroughly and utterly intoxicated, if you had enough wine at hand.”

“Guilty as charged,” Crowley smirked. “Are you going to open that bottle, or should I do the honours?”

“I’ll take care of it, if you don’t mind,” Aziraphale quickly answered, snatching the corkscrew. He took a good look at it. It was an ugly, gaudy sort of thing, with a lacquered crest of some kind at the centre. “Did you steal this from the dinner table?”

“Of course,” Crowley drawled, “from under the noses of your insufferable relatives.”

Aziraphale laughed, this time. He laughed, bright and loud and unrestrained, and Crowley thought he was going to get blinded by such light.

“This thing has probably been in the family for three hundred year, you know,” he chuckled. “Mr. Young counts them every evening, together with the silverware.”

“What an exciting life.”

“I have half a mind to send you downstairs to let the poor man know what befell his corkscrew,” Aziraphale playfully threatened, as he started to unscrew the bottle, “but I think his wife already knows.”

“His wife looks way smarter than him,” Crowley lazily replied, busy as he was watching Aziraphale expertly work the cork free. It took some effort, even with the corkscrew, and it was an enticing contradiction to witness Aziraphale’s soft, carefully manicured hands wielding that kind of strength.

“That’s a rather accurate impression,” Aziraphale mused, gently drawing out the cork. Crowley pictured the shift of muscles under the soft skin of his arms, and swallowed thickly at the thought of being manhandled with that same exact blend of careful and forceful. He realised he was holding his breath when the cork finally popped free, and the rich smell of well-aged wine hit his nostrils as he inhaled deeply.

“Here we are,” Aziraphale hummed, pouring for both. Crowley made space for him on the bed, shifting to Aziraphale’s side. Aziraphale didn’t seem to care. He handed Crowley his glass and joined him over the coverlets, fussily getting himself comfortable before raising his glass at Crowley.

“To nice and shrewd ladies,” Crowley offered, with a grin. Aziraphale chuckled at the quip, and clinked his glass against Crowley’s. He hummed softly his appreciation as he sipped at his wine, and Crowley stared at him over the rim of his glass.

They tried to hold a conversation, but they were both too tired and wound up to get something truly going. Even if Crowley wasn’t one to appreciate long silences, he wasn’t opposed to sharing some quiet time with Aziraphale, but the other man seemed to get lost in his own thoughts after a while. Crowley had no intention of letting him dwell on any dark memory, if he could help it.

“We could watch some Netflix, if you liked,” Crowley proposed. There was no telly in that wretched place, of course, but the internet connection was shockingly good.

Aziraphale blinked up a little owlishly at him, obviously resurfacing from some not-particularly-pleasant train of thought.

“What’s Netflix?” he asked, and Crowley didn’t even have it in himself to be surprised at the distracted, old-fashioned librarian who had never heard of streaming services.

With an affected long-suffering sigh, to which Aziraphale replied with a pointed sniffle, Crowley downloaded the app on his phone and used his brand-new account to show Aziraphale what all the fuss was about. Needless to say, Aziraphale didn’t seem impressed with the wonders of modern technology in the slightest, and eyed the scrolling menu with a look of open distrust.

“Just tell me what you like, angel, and I’ll show you how it works,” Crowley grumbled, when it became painfully obvious that Aziraphale would’ve been much happier with a book in his hands.

“I don’t know, I haven’t seen a motion picture in a long time,” Aziraphale answered, a little thoughtfully, and Crowley was hopelessly charmed by him using the term _motion picture_, of all bleeding things. “_To kill a mockingbird_? The book was obviously better, but I quite enjoyed the film. Gregory Peck made for a truly magnificent Atticus Finch.”

Crowley looked for it, but he was out of luck.

“Sorry, angel.”

Aziraphale bestowed upon him and his phone a look that managed to convey pretty well what he thought of any platform promising good entertainment while being so obviously lacking any sort of taste in that department, and Crowley couldn’t help but laugh at that supercilious glare.

“Anything else that tickles your fancy, angel?” he drawled, sipping at his wine.

Aziraphale shrugged.

“Something funny will do,” he answered, making very clear how little expectation he held about that pitiful excuse of a service being able to satisfy even such a simple request.

Crowley was grinning to himself as he scrolled the selection of films that Netflix deemed funny in some way. He’d discovered recently that the platform seemed to have a very peculiar understanding of the word at times.

He’d been scrolling for a while, when something caught his eyes.

“You like the Pythons, angel?” he asked, quite excited and very pleased with himself, only to be rewarded with a rather confused look.

“Pythons? You mean the snakes? I’ve never really given much thought to that. Well, yes, I suppose...?”

Crowley snorted a laugh so deeply felt and so sudden he nearly spilled his wine all over the bed.

“The Pythons as in the Monty Python, angel. The comedy group. From the seventies.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaimed, eyes wide. “I see! Well, you can’t really fault me for the mistake, it’s such a silly name. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of them.”

“You’re in for a treat, angel,” Crowley grinned, getting the movie started. He was so caught up in his delight that he realised that Aziraphale had shifted closer only when he felt his body press up quite firmly against his own side, and then all he could do was swallow thickly as his aching skin soaked in the sudden heat like a wilting flower.

“What are we watching, then?” Aziraphale asked, seemingly unaware of Crowley stiffening up like a board at his side.

“_Monty Python and the Holy Grail_,” he barely had the wherewithal to answer. Aziraphale seemed quite pleased with his choice.

“Oh, the Arthurian legends! It can’t be that bad, then” he cheerfully remarked, and Crowley didn’t have the heart to point him to _Merlin_’s general direction.

They settled to watch the movie in relative silence, after that. Relative being the key, since Aziraphale didn’t seem to be able to keep quiet for ten minutes in a row, and threw comments and giggles and open laughs here and there like confetti, all bubbling excitement and honest mirth. Crowley held out his glass without a word when Aziraphale offered to fill it up, and sipped the rich, heady wine while listening to Aziraphale’s enthusiastic commentary. Aziraphale threatened to spill his wine at the obnoxious French and their flying cow, and asked Crowley to replay the tale of the brave Sir Robin twice. Then he got very quiet and a little squirming at Sir Galahad’s adventure at Castle Anthrax, with all that spanking being thrown about, which Crowley assumed with a secret grin was a bit too racy a subject for Aziraphale and his quiet life as a librarian.

(Not that Crowley was much more an expert on the subject either. He knew about that sort of stuff, of course, and he’d horsed about with one of his more stable hook-ups in his early twenties and got tied up once to the bed for his trouble, but he’d never really trusted anyone again with that kind of control. You don’t give the casual shag of the night the power to leave you incapacitated and unable to stop them from beating you up and stealing your stuff. Playing was fun, but no more than getting off in general, and Crowley liked uncomplicated sex.)

By the end of the movie, they’d nearly emptied their bottle, and Crowley was floating in a cloud of rightful self-satisfaction at having picked a movie that Aziraphale seemed to have so thoroughly enjoyed.

Aziraphale was still chattering excitedly about the capitals of Assyria (plural, because apparently having one wasn’t enough back in the days), when he realised that their wine was gone. He pouted a little as he sloshed the bottle about, and then he parted with a shrug whatever was left between himself and Crowley. Crowley downed his share in one go, getting an elbow in his ribs as a reward.

“It’s Châteuneuf-du-Pape, you beast, you’re supposed to savour it!” Aziraphale chided him, making a show of daintily sniffing at his glass before taking a delicate sip.

Crowley snorted at the display, turning his phone off and placing it more or less carefully on Aziraphale’s nightstand, together with his empty glass. He wasn’t really pissed, but he was admittedly tipsy, loose and relaxed and one step away from wrapping his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders and burying his nose in those soft curls. Aziraphale was still plastered against his side, all sturdy bones and malleable heat, and Crowley wanted nothing more than to rub his entire body against Aziraphale’s until his skin had memorised the patterns of Aziraphale’s flesh. He leaned against the headboard, instead, breathing deeply through the nose the sandalwood scent of Aziraphale’s cologne and closing his eyes.

He was jostled from this seraphic state of mind by Aziraphale’s squirming, and cracked one eye open to see what was going on. Aziraphale had shifted slightly away, and was pressing a hand against his nape with a sigh.

“That was fun and all, but I’m a bit too old to lie on the bed all twisted up like that, I’m afraid,” he grumbled, sliding his hands to the small of his back.

Crowley was not pissed, but he was definitely too tipsy to keep a good handle on his mouth.

“I could give you a backrub, if you want,” he offered, before his brain could reboot just enough to scream at him what terrible, bad, no-good idea that was. Alas, his brain was currently offline, and his offer was met with a tense, almost electric silence.

“That’s...” Aziraphale stammered, quickly glancing at him from the corner of his eye before looking away, “well, that’s very nice of you, but I don’t think...”

“Nonsense,” Crowley cut him off, because he was panicking and didn’t know how to take his offer back, or even worse, Aziraphale politely refusing it. If he took it back, it would mean something, and the last thing Crowley wanted was for something so obviously important to have any meaning to Aziraphale. It would leave him exposed, and Crowley couldn’t have that. “’s not a big deal, angel. I give backrubs all the time.”

(Which he absolutely did, if _never before_ actually meant _every damn day_.)

That seemed to be the wrong thing to say. Aziraphale shifted away a bit more, and Crowley was left there to deal with his panicky thoughts and the absence of Aziraphale’s wondrous warmth.

“I don’t think that will be necessary, tonight,” Aziraphale answered, sniffling a bit disdainfully as he sipped at his wine. “Wouldn’t want to use up all those valuable skills of yours.”

Crowley was admittedly tipsy, and not very bright at that specific moment.

“What?”

Aziraphale downed his wine in one go, brazenly going against everything he’d said to Crowley so far, and placed his glass on Crowley’s nightstand.

“Forget it,” he grumbled, before taking a deep breath. “Let’s go to sleep.”

Crowley couldn’t fathom for the life of him whatever had gone so terribly wrong, but he couldn’t just fall asleep and pretend that nothing had happened.

“No, wait,” he tried, stopping the other man from getting under the covers with a hand that had been placed on Aziraphale’s forearm when Crowley’s brain wasn’t looking. “I’d like to.”

The admission was out of his mouth before he could stop it, before he could work it over until it didn’t give away so painfully much, and Crowley realised with absolute horror that now he got the weight of Aziraphale’s full attention steadily focused on him. Aziraphale’s forearm was warm and solid under Crowley’s palm, and his eyes were bright and a bit harder than usual as they took Crowley in­.

Crowley did the only thing that could be expected from him in such a situation. He snatched his hand away and started to babble.

“Well, I’m your boyfriend, ah, fake partner?, is that better?, and, I mean, I’m supposed to do nice things for you. That’s what I’m here for, after all.”

He realised only as the words left his mouth that he meant every single one of them. He wanted to do something for Aziraphale, he wanted to make him feel good. He couldn’t stop himself from thinking about the way Aziraphale had looked during that wretched dinner, how small he’d made himself, how dejected and full of shame his face had been, as his wanker brother rounded up on him. He wanted to rub that look away from Aziraphale skin like a stain, never to come back. And he wanted to touch him, oh, God, he wanted to touch him so damn much, with such a deep, devastating desperation that it lashed at his skin, clawing at his flesh. His hands were trembling with the strength of that need, and Crowley hid them in his laps, hoping that Aziraphale wouldn’t notice.

“And it is necessary,” Crowley rambled on, looking away, incapable of holding the focus of those blue eyes. “You’re tense like a bowstring. I’m not sure I want to be here, when you snap.”

He had absolutely no idea what he was doing. He nudged Aziraphale’s naked foot with his own socked one, trying to distract him, to direct that unwavering stare elsewhere.

“C’mon,” he insisted, without really thinking it through. “Take off your shirt and roll over.”

That was probably the worst possible way to phrase whatever it was that Crowley had meant to say, but it hit the mark with better results than he could’ve ever dreamt off.

Aziraphale’s eyes widened, then he looked down, ears blushing slightly pink as he examined the shirt of his tartan pyjamas as though he’d never seen it before.

“My-my shirt?”

Crowley hadn’t exactly thought about that, but now he didn’t think he could survive without knowing what it’d be like to smooth down Aziraphale’s bare flesh with the palms of his hands. He could feel that yearning, that ache, like a pull, a centripetal force that dragged him kicking and screaming towards Aziraphale, whether he wanted it or not.

(Well, perhaps not kicking and screaming, but no one cared for such details, after all.)

“Yes, your shirt,” Crowley repeated, trying to cover the slight tremor of his voice by rolling his eyes rather showily. “And whatever comes attached to it, all those layers you seem so fond of.”

Aziraphale was still looking down, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

“Can’t I keep it on?” he asked, uncertainty filtering in his voice.

Crowley smirked, congratulating himself for a job well done in diverting Aziraphale’s attention away from the actual important bit, which was just how _much_ Crowley wanted to touch him, and shifting the focus of Aziraphale’s objections away from the backrub itself.

“If we’re doing this, let’s do it properly,” Crowley pressed on, brain catching up just in time to make him wonder if Aziraphale _did_ want him to touch him, after all. He seemed conflicted enough about the entire affair, and the last thing that Crowley wanted, greedy bastard that he was aside, was to make Aziraphale uncomfortable.

But he _was_ a greedy bastard, after all.

“I can turn away, if you’d rather,” he offered quietly, in a sudden bout of divine inspiration. “While you get settled.”

A beat. Then Aziraphale’s low, uncertain voice.

“...please?”

It broke Crowley’s heart, the fragility of it. He was about to call it off, but he couldn’t. His hands were shaking with the need to touch Aziraphale, the rending hunger of finally getting to press his palms over naked skin. To be closer to him, not nearly close enough, but closer nonetheless.

“Of course, angel,” he answered, startled by the softness of his own voice, and turned away. He tried to keep his breathing under control as the mattress shifted at Aziraphale’s squirming, fabric rustling in the silence as loud as a bang. Crowley swallowed thickly, heart thrumming in his chest, strong enough that he could feel the rush of blood pulsing in his temple, his wrist, the swell of his hardening cock. He shifted a bit too, desperately hoping that Aziraphale would close his eyes before noticing his tented trousers. Cursed suits. Jeans chafed obscenely against a hard-on, but at least hid the worst of it a sight better than those blasted pressed trousers.

Sweat was beading his skin, when Aziraphale finally spoke again.

“All right. You can... you can start.”

His heart was in his throat, as Crowley slowly turned around to take in the sight lying in front of him. Aziraphale was spread out on the dark duvet like a banquet, pale skin stretched over the bump of his nape, the sturdy shape of his shoulders, and then lower, down his spine and his softly rounded flanks. Tufts of whitish, wispy hairs were curling under his armpits, and the fuzz on his arms was so pale it was nearly invisible. Aziraphale’s body mirrored almost perfectly what Crowley had imagined it would be, stocky, solid and soft at the same time, but vibrant in a way, fragile the way all bodies were, a delicate latticework of skin and bones and sinews layered one on top of the other, scarily breakable. Beautiful, and real, and alive.

There was a hint of muscles along his shoulder blades, down his arms, and Crowley saw them shift under the smooth skin, at Aziraphale’s minute, restless shifts. But it was the swell of his arse that got Crowley’s attention and refused to let go. Aziraphale’s trousers were riding so low that he could almost spy the dip between his cheeks, and Crowley found out by himself that being so tantalising close to see was worse than actually seeing. He swallowed again, trying to move, to do anything but sitting there like a tit staring at Aziraphale’s arse, but he’d have probably turned into a pillar of salt if Aziraphale’s voice hadn’t prodded him into action.

“...Crowley?”

There was something tentative there, and a little vulnerable, too. Crowley was startled back to the present with a full-body jolt, and then reflexively licked his lips, as he thanked every god he knew that Aziraphale was facing away from him, blond curls resting on the crock of his elbow. His head was pillowed on his crossed forearms, which meant that everything was stretched quite nicely for Crowley’s pleasure. And what a pleasure that was.

“Yes, I, ah, yes, of course,” Crowley stammered, realising then and there that he’d never given a backrub in his entire life and he had absolutely no idea how the entire business actually worked. “Yes. I’ll, yes. Ah. Er.”

His hands were still shaking a bit, and he forced them into something close to stillness, as he shifted into an awkward knelt by Aziraphale’s side and slowly, slowly placed them upon his shoulders. He felt Aziraphale’s ribcage expand suddenly under his palms, as Aziraphale sucked in a breath.

“I-I might have, well, overstated things, you know, before,” Crowley blabbered, incapable of keeping his mouth under control, brain working in overdrive to process the sensation of Aziraphale’s flesh under his palms, how warm, how solid he felt, how close, and how alive. Crowley could feel the pull of his own skin like a live wire, the almost intolerable need to get out of his clothes and press his naked flesh against Aziraphale, close enough that he couldn’t tell anymore where he ended and where Aziraphale began. The expensive suit he was wearing was quite comfortable, yet he could feel every fibre of cloth chafing against his overheated skin.

“Oh?”

Aziraphale’s voice was muffled, and a bit subdued, but Crowley didn’t need much prodding to keep going. He couldn’t really think straight right then and there.

“I, er, I don’t actually do this very often. Backrubs, I mean. ‘twas a silly thing to say, don’t know really why I did it, I mean, I don’t actually do this. Never. I...” Crowley took a deep breath. He had no idea what was coming out of his mouth anymore. “I’ve never done this before. Actually. Er.”

His heart-to-heart was met with a long, still silence. Crowley could nearly hear his own heartbeat in the hushed quiet, and he tried to use it to calm down somewhat. The wine he’d drunk wasn’t enough to justify _that_, whatever that was. Him being an idiot, probably. No other explanation needed.

“...I’m sorry?” Crowley croaked, when the silence had become unbearable. He was about to take his hands off Aziraphale’s shoulders, when he heard, he _felt_ Aziraphale take a slow, steadying breath. Crazily enough, it relaxed him, and Crowley found himself breathing deeply without thinking, mirroring him.

“Whatever should you be sorry for, my dear boy?” Aziraphale rumbled, low and calm and almost _purring_. Crowley’s breath caught in his throat, hands reflexively clenching around the firm flesh of Aziraphale’s shoulders.

“I-I don’t know, I, ah. Well.” Crowley swallowed, tentatively rubbing his thumbs against the ridges of Aziraphale’s shoulder blades, and was rewarded with another deep sigh. “I should get on with it, I suppose.”

Aziraphale harrumphed non-committally in response, and Crowley decided to take it as an agreement. He dug the heels of his hands into the muscles as he pushed towards Aziraphale’s nape, and felt the gentle give of flesh under the pressure. Crowley tried to bring back to mind some videos he’d seen about massages, but since most of them had ended up with far more tumultuous activities, he decided that perhaps concentrating on something less exciting would be best for the present occasion. He was high strung enough at the moment, with Aziraphale half naked and pliant under his hands. He didn’t need to replay porn in his mind to prod at his already over-excited libido. Perhaps it’d be best to go with the flow, simply doing whatever felt good. It was a massage, after all, not rocket science. He could do it.

Crowley dipped his thumbs in the bunched-up muscles crowding Aziraphale’s spine and stroked them gently, as he curled his palms around his shoulders and kneaded the strain away. Aziraphale felt a bit stiff, but Crowley had absolutely no idea whether that was normal or a sign of stress. Half the porn he’d seen had featured the infamous line ‘I can feel how tense you are’, but since Crowley would’ve been hard pressed to make a distinction between tense muscles and bones or sinews, which he believed were _supposed_ to be stiff to the touch, he thought it best to leave those sorts of speculations to professionals who, according to his in-depth research on the matter, had made stroking the tension away from every single stiff muscle their mission in life.

Crowley kept massaging Aziraphale’s shoulders for a while, varying strength and tempo, until he was kneading the taut flesh with an almost lazy pace, taking the time to feel the bunching up and release of every single muscle group under his palms. He was going so slow it was nearly hypnotic. He could feel his own body unwind in the gentle flow of pressure and release, pressure and release, the warmth and pliability of Aziraphale’s body wonderful under his hands. It was strange how soothing he was finding the entire experience, even if he was the one giving the massage, instead of getting it. He felt almost sleepy, thoughts sluggishly rolling about in his heavy head. Aziraphale hadn’t said a word since they’d started, but he seemed loose enough. Crowley would’ve thought he’d fallen asleep, if it hadn’t been for the steady rhythm of his breaths, or the minute shifts from time to time.

Feeling somewhat bolder, Crowley slowly dragged his palms down Aziraphale’s back. He was aware that he was tottering on the edge between massaging and simply stroking the soft skin, so he slid his hands all the way back to his nape pressing his heels against the tense muscles framing his spine. Aziraphale sighed softly at the touch, and Crowley did it again, dipping a bit lower, this time, and then digging in his heels on the way up. It was a bit awkward from where he was, kneeling at Aziraphale’s side, but he didn’t think that straddling his back would be a good idea. Crowley wasn’t about to mount the poor man unaware, for one thing, and secondly he wasn’t completely sure Aziraphale wouldn’t object at having Crowley’s hard-on poking at his spine. His prick had gone down in the relaxed, almost dreamy state that had followed that nasty bout of excitement, but Crowley had no doubts that it would perk up again at being pressed against Aziraphale’s arse.

Crowley tried his best from his twisted position, slowly dragging his palms up and down Aziraphale’s back, until his hands brushed the hem of his trousers. With a start, Crowley realised that he’d almost ridden up the swell of Aziraphale’s arse, and quickly slipped his hands back along his spine, relishing the gentle give of flesh under his palm.

It was such an intimate thing to do, he thought, almost wistfully. He’d buggered his fair share of men, but he’d never taken the time (or be offered the occasion) to know their body like that, to be privy to every minute imperfection, every ridge and groove along their spine. Aziraphale had a scatter of moles on one side, tiny like a constellation, and a red pimple over his left shoulder blade. Crowley thumbed the crease left by the elastic band of his pyjama bottom as he pressed the heels of his hands against the small of Aziraphale’s back, and moved slowly upwards. Aziraphale was plump, but not exceedingly so. His body spoke of a life of fine pleasures being satisfied, not of unhealthy excesses. Crowley relished the way he felt under his hands, sturdy and soft at the same time.

Crowley had no idea how long it’d been since he’d started, but Aziraphale’s pale skin had turned pink under his ministrations by the time the man had started squirming minutely under his hands. Crowley didn’t think much of it at first. He carried on with the steady rubbing of Aziraphale’s back, up and down, hiding the gentle stroking with some more pointed kneading. He was applying gentle pressure with his thumbs in slow circles at the sides of Aziraphale’s neck (a brand-new technique that had come to his mind while he was thumbing the clenched muscles framing his spine), when Aziraphale’s squirming turned a bit too forceful to be so easily ignored. Crowley had become so used to the silence and the gentle rustle of skin rubbing against skin that Aziraphale’s voice startled him.

“I think that’s quite enough.”

Crowley blinked, his steady kneading of Aziraphale’s shoulders slowly coming to a halt. Aziraphale had spoken in a low, almost gravelly voice, like someone just waking up. Crowley decided to take it as a good sign. He’d wanted Aziraphale to relax, after all. He was less enthusiastic about taking his hands off him, but he supposed that would’ve been inevitable, sooner or later.

“Oh,” he mumbled, “alright.”

He took his hands away slowly, unwillingly, clasping them into his lap. He wasn’t sure what to do with himself, now. His brain was still half-sunken into that loose, hazy state of mind, unable to process the fact that he wasn’t touching Aziraphale anymore, even less that he was supposed to do _things_ that required decision-making processes beforehand. He rubbed a hand against his nape, realising belatedly that perhaps he ought to look away and give the poor man some space. Aziraphale was still lying exactly how he’d left him, probably waiting for him to move a bit further off instead of looming over him like a creep.

Crowley was so focused on his internal monologue that it took him a long moment to realise that Aziraphale had grown increasingly tenser, and didn’t seem to have any intention of rolling over or moving in any sort of direction. It took Crowley even longer to figure out why. He felt something hot and almost electric trickle down his spine, when he did.

“Aziraphale...” he called, because he couldn’t _not_ to. He wanted to touch him so desperately, hunger howling like a living thing in his blood.

Aziraphale’s breath caught, at Crowley’s low whisper.

“I...” Aziraphale tried, voice uneven, “I, ah.”

Crowley couldn’t rein himself in anymore. He reached out, pressing a hand between Aziraphale’s shoulder blades, feeling his ribcage blow wide as Aziraphale sucked in a heavy breath. He caressed the skin, gently, without the pretences, deliberately relishing the smooth texture of it under his palm.

“Roll over, angel,” Crowley murmured.

Aziraphale seemed to think it over for a while, then slowly, laboriously rolled onto his back, looking up at Crowley. His eyes were open wide, a bit wary as they searched Crowley’s face. Crowley hummed under his breath, and finally, _finally_ cupped the soft cheek in the palm of his hand. Aziraphale lay stock-still for a long moment, then gave in, lids covering his eyes at half-mast as he turned his head slightly to lean against Crowley’s palm. Crowley swiped his thumb against the bow of Aziraphale’s lower lip, before sliding his hand lower, caressing his neck, brushing his collarbone, sinking his fingers in the small patch of soft white hairs curling between his pink nipples. Crowley mused vaguely about thumbing them until they peaked, but he didn’t really have the wherewithal left to linger. He wanted to see. That could very well be his only chance, and he wanted... he _wanted_.

Aziraphale’s round stomach quivered a little when Crowley stroked it, a soft breath escaping his mouth as Crowley thumbed his navel. Such lovely, unblemished skin, so pale and smooth. Crowley yearned to sink his teeth into it, to suck the blood closer to the surface in purple marks, to tongue the furled creases of that round bellybutton. He reached for the hem of Aziraphale’s trousers, instead, pausing to take in the shape of Aziraphale’s hard cock, straining the tartan-coloured cloth of those ridiculous pyjamas.

Crowley swallowed thickly, hands shaking as he looked up at Aziraphale’s fluttering chest, his pink neck, his red face. His wide eyes looked dark in the soft lights. He was staring Crowley down with an almost unblinking gaze, body locked into nearly-absolute stillness, fists clenched around handfuls of the soft duvet. He was waiting for Crowley to move, Crowley realised. He was waiting to see what Crowley would do.

Well, Crowley would not disappoint him.

“May I?” Crowley asked, fingers curling around the elastic band of Aziraphale’s trousers. Aziraphale sucked in a breath, the moment hanging still for an unquantifiable amount of time.

“Yes,” Aziraphale eventually answered.

It was everything Crowley needed.

His heart was thudding in his chest, as he hooked his fingers under the elastic bands of both Aziraphale’s trousers and pants and pulled them carefully over the straining shape of his cock. It wasn’t very long, but it was thick, the sort of thick that would fill Crowley’s mouth perfectly as he went down on it, the sort of thick that would make him choke over and over again as he tried to shove it down his throat. Crowley swallowed again, licking his lips reflexively as he let the elastic band snap tight again around Aziraphale’s thighs.

Aziraphale groaned, something raw and low punched out of his chest, when Crowley reached for his cock and wrapped his hand around the girth of it. Crowley could barely close his fingers around it, and his hand was by no means small. He stroked all the way up to the head, pulling away the bit of clinging foreskin to reveal the flared shape of it, slanted and red with blood. Crowley thumbed the slit, feeling the gentle give of flesh under the pad, and Aziraphale moaned ever so softly at the touch.

He’d do well to make a show out of it, Crowley knew it. It was his chance to prove Aziraphale how good being with him could be, how well Crowley was capable of satisfying him. It might be his only chance, even. What if that was everything Crowley was ever going to have? What if all Aziraphale was ever going to give him was a drunken tumble to forget his dreamy ex? Crowley swallowed down the bitterness of that thought, crushed it under his heels. He could do that, he could go down on Aziraphale and make him scream. He was good at it. If Aziraphale wanted to forget, Crowley would make him forget.

But that wasn’t what Crowley wanted.

There was a faraway quality to the way they were moving, to the soft gasps and wet moans tumbling out of Aziraphale’s lips as Crowley stroked him slowly, gently, carefully applying pressure where Aziraphale seemed to be most receptive of it. He could do much more than that, of course–he could play with Aziraphale’s balls, his perineum, his hole even, as he kept on that steady stroking, winding Aziraphale up and up like a spring. But that would’ve meant moving, rearranging his frame instead of bracing his entire weight on the hand he got splayed over the mattress. It would’ve meant disturbing the fragile quiet of that oddly hushed moment, where he was gazing at Aziraphale’s supine body while slowly milking pleasure in waves out of his dark, straining cock. It would’ve meant endangering the steady, grounding weight of those blue eyes staring at him with unwavering focus through the thick lashes fanning those blushing cheeks, and Crowley couldn’t have that. It was like being suspended, in time, in place, enclosed in a bubble of silence where nothing existed, except the gloriously, painfully _alive_ physicality of their bodies. No thoughts, no memories, no fear and no heartbreak. Only the slow slide of Crowley’s fist along Aziraphale’s cock, both of them revelling in the subtle pleasure of skin rubbing against skin, and the more concrete, pressing bliss of being slowly but surely pushed towards orgasm, and being the one who brought the other there.

Aziraphale groaned again, deep, quivering, as Crowley squeezed the head of his cock and then palmed the slit. It was starting to leak, precome making for a slippery slide. Aziraphale was wonderfully hot in his fist, hard and smooth and impossibly good. Crowley could feel his own heartbeat in his temple, and was vaguely aware of his own cock straining against the fly of his trousers, but those were thoughts for another time. He thumbed the sensitive stripe of skin under the head and felt Aziraphale shudder, a full-body shiver that ricocheted through Crowley’s own flesh like a seismic wave.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale panted, low and uneven, palm covering the hand that Crowley had planted onto the mattress, “I’m, I’m going to, ah-”

“Yes,” Crowley said, because he didn’t know how else to convey that he wanted, _craved_ to see Aziraphale fall apart, the living proof that he’d done that, that he’d carved a sign deep enough in Aziraphale’s flesh to pull a reaction from his body. He stroked him a bit faster, a bit harder, feeling his own skin bead up in goosebumps as the tension in Aziraphale’s body ramped up, and crested in a peak as Aziraphale came all over his own chest.

Crowley kept stroking him through it, barely aware of Aziraphale squeezing his hand as he groaned and shuddered his way through climax. The last weak spurts of come striped his quivering stomach, then dribbled onto the white tuft of curly hairs that framed his slowly wilting cock. Crowley gently thumbed the sensitive stripe of flesh between Aziraphale’s sack and the root of his prick, and Aziraphale jolted at the overstimulation, a noise of protest coming out of his mouth. Crowley noticed that his lips were obscenely pink, as though he’d bit them raw.

Crowley gently laid Aziraphale’s softening cock against his belly, and stroked his thigh as Aziraphale slowly came down from his high in pants and shuddering sighs.

“Good?” Crowley whispered, when Aziraphale’s breath had steadied enough for him to stop panting and level a hazy gaze at Crowley. “Stay here. I’ll go get something to clean you up with.”

Aziraphale didn’t seem particularly happy with that decision, if the way he was clutching Crowley’s hand was anything to go by, but Crowley gently disentangled himself from his grip and tottered on unsteady legs to the bathroom. It was then, as he found a washcloth and wetted it carefully under the running water, that he realised just how deeply fucked he was.

He’d got what he wanted, in the end. He’d got to touch Aziraphale, to see how his face looked when he came, to hear which sounds he made as he was taken over by bliss. And now he knew, with desperate clarity, that he’d never forget it. It’d stay with him long after that ridiculous charade was over, when Aziraphale would sober up and remember with a bit of embarrassment the drunken tumble he’d had with Anathema’s silly friend to forget his perfect ex, the marvellous doctor who apparently had all the support from his family that Crowley wouldn’t get in a million years. Crowley wouldn’t be able to replace the wanker even if he’d wanted to, and it was with a dejected sense of shame that Crowley realised that he did.

It would’ve been so much easier if Aziraphale had been a stranger in a bar, someone he could easily lie to, the affected laid-back, smooth behaviour coming to him like a second skin. But Aziraphale had come to know Crowley well enough to spot the bullshit, and without the lies, only Crowley remained. No one really wanted that. And while the slink wanker who hunted in bars didn’t care much to get turned down by someone who had no clue about who Crowley really was, he was terrified of being rejected by somebody who knew exactly what and who was being rejected.

Crowley took a deep breath, staring at his reflection in the mirror, at the lines starting to mar his tired skin, at the hint of grey in his hair. Old fool. The worst sort–the pathetic sort.

He turned off the tap, wrung the excess of water out of the washcloth and stepped back into the room. Aziraphale was exactly where he’d left him, breathing steadily in the silence, eyes closed. He cracked them open when Crowley climbed onto the bed, and smiled at him with something that looked almost like fondness, as Crowley carefully wiped his chest and belly clean.

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured, lazily stroking Crowley’s thigh with the back of his hand. He waited for Crowley to pull up his trousers, then rose up, bracing his weight on one elbow, brushing with obvious purpose Crowley’s inner thigh. Crowley shivered under the attention, instinctively spreading his legs a bit wider as he felt his prick answer to the gentle touch.

“So lovely,” Aziraphale murmured, fingers brushing his fly. “Here, let me...”

The touch blazed through Crowley’s body like a blow. He stiffened, all the air rushing out of his lungs as if they’d been crushed by a giant hand. In a fit of panic, Crowley knew, knew with absolute, devastating certainty that if Aziraphale touched him, even once, he could never again do without. And what would it be of him, if after sobering up Aziraphale would regret their little dalliance and disappear?

Crowley didn’t want to be the bloke Aziraphale had a drunken shag with one night to help him get over his ex. He didn’t want to be the dirty fun on the side, the one that happened once because it was new and exciting and the moment was right and that he’d feel vaguely ashamed to think about later.

Crowley wanted to have meaning. He wanted to be someone to somebody, he realised, with a pang of sorrow in his chest. He wanted to be someone to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale let out a soft, displeased sound as Crowley pulled away from his outstretched hand.

“I’m good,” Crowley reassured him, feeling like he could barely breathe. “No need for that.”

Aziraphale searched his face for a moment, forehead wrinkling up in a frown.

“But...”

“It’s ok, angel,” Crowley interrupted him, drawing up to his feet, suddenly desperate to be as far away as possible from those confused, _confusing_ eyes. “Just lending a helping hand. No need to make it a big deal.”

Crowley pulled his lips into a smirk, sliding into his older self, his wanker-suit, with the desperation of a fish flapping about on dry land while choking to death. Flash to distract. The one lesson he’d learnt, and learnt well.

Aziraphale recoiled from him, taking back his hand, mouth downturned in a grimace. Crowley knew what was coming, but it hurt still, seeing Aziraphale drawing away from him.

“I see.”

Crowley gazed at the dirty cloth in his hands, realising vaguely that he was fidgeting with it. He stopped, looking away.

“I should get this in the hamper. And get ready for... ah. Get ready for bed.”

“Of course.”

Aziraphale’s voice was low, and calm, and cold. Crowley felt the ice in it like the lash of a whip upon his shoulders.

“I’ll... I’ll go.”

The hamper was hidden under the sink, easy to find. Crowley washed his hands thoroughly, taking perhaps more time than he needed, and then went back to the bedroom to get his sleepwear. Aziraphale was buttoning up the shirt of his pyjamas, apparently too busy with his task to spare him a look. Crowley picked up his stuff and retreated to the bathroom, like the coward that he was. He washed up quickly and got changed.

The room was dipped in shadows when he returned, the only source of light the lamp on his side of the bed, a faint smell of sex hanging in the air. Aziraphale had shifted to his own side, curling up under the covers, his back to Crowley. He looked asleep, or like he wanted Crowley to think he was asleep. Crowley stuck his dirty clothes in his duffle bag and sat down on the duvet, waiting for Aziraphale to say something.

He didn’t.

Crowley thought about saying something himself, but he couldn’t think of one single thing, so he said nothing. He turned off the lights and slipped under the covers, his back to Aziraphale.

It took him a long, long time to fall asleep.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m absolutely overwhelmed by the outpours of love received by the last chapter. The last few weeks have been tough, but whenever I felt like giving up on writing for a while, your lovely comments kept me going. So, thank you. Thank you all for being so lovely. I’m not very good at sharing and caring, but times have been shitty all around, and I hope my story will give you a little breathing room, a space where you can forget life for a little while.  
You all stay safe and stay home. I’ll do my bit by keeping the filth coming, as fast and well as I can <3

Morning came way too soon, in Crowley’s opinion. Well, perhaps not morning itself, since Crowley barely managed to sleep a wink throughout the entire night, but certainly the moment he’d have to face Aziraphale and the weight of his bad decisions, and sober, on top of that. It was such a terrible combination that Crowley really, really wanted to avoid thinking about it, even as he lay sleepless in the bed he was sharing with Aziraphale, listening to the soothing rising and falling of his breathing.

When the sunshine filtered boldly through the wispy curtains, stirring Aziraphale out of his sleep, Crowley realised that he couldn’t put off the whole thing much longer. But he could certainly try. No one could accuse him of slacking off in his cowardly ways to avoid important discussions, after all.

Crowley could very nearly _feel_ the weight of Aziraphale’s gaze, as the man turned to look at him. Crowley didn’t move a muscle, lying on his back in the sunshine with his eyes forcefully closed, pretending to be asleep. He was primed to listen to the rustle of covers, sure sign that Aziraphale was finally getting up, but the silence stretched on, Aziraphale’s unnerving focus like the whisper of fingertips dancing upon his skin. Crowley knew that he was being watched, assessed. He knew that Aziraphale was thinking about the night before. How could he not? Crowley couldn’t stop thinking about it either. It was etched into his skull like a carving.

His resolve was starting to waver, his muscles to cramp, his skin to itch, when Aziraphale finally gave up with a sigh and rolled out of bed. Crowley listened intently as the other man pottered about, and relaxed only when he heard the soft click of the bathroom door, and the murmur of running water filtering through the old wood.

Crowley cracked one eye open, then the other. He was alone in the room. The empty bottle and the used glasses he’d so carefully stashed away were scattered over both nightstands, stained and dirty–an unsubtle reminder of their botched evening. The lacquered corkscrew he’d stolen over dinner looked even gaudier in daylight, a pompous, empty thing. Clutter.

Crowley sighed, deeply, unclenching his muscles and stretching up, scratching an itch on his left cheek, stubble roughening the skin. It was an annoyingly beautiful day, the sky terse and the sunshine bright, making the thin layer of frost covering the gardens outside shimmer like crusted diamonds. Crowley hated it by reflex.

He felt a bit off. He hadn’t drunk enough the night before to be properly hungover, but the blasted wine was stronger than Crowley had given it credit too. It was nothing that couldn’t be fixed with some cooked food, of course, but that would mean facing Aziraphale, and even worse, facing his family, which were two things on which Crowley wasn’t very keen at that specific moment.

(He wasn’t keen on seeing that _look_ on Aziraphale, of course, that look of hurt disappointment that had been so painful while tipsy, and that would surely gut him like a fish on a hook when sober.

He wasn’t keen on seeing Aziraphale’s family in general terms.)

The rush of water coming from the bathroom took some time to dwindle, but eventually the tap was closed. Crowley could always pretend to be still asleep, but there were limits even to his cowardice, and if he had to face Aziraphale and whatever would transpire from his face now that the buzz was gone, well, he’d do it on his feet, like a man. He could show himself at least that modicum of respect.

Crowley was therefore standing by the bed like a twit when Aziraphale opened the door. And there he was–scrubbed pink and impossibly soft, in a pair of old-fashioned white boxers and a white undershirt. The minimal clothing showed off his strong thighs and his sturdy shoulders, hugging the round shape of his belly and demurely creasing over the soft bulge of his cock. He was holding a towel to his hair with one hand, the other still on the handle of the door, when he spotted Crowley.

Crowley, like the tit that he was, just froze like a dead cat on the side of the road. Aziraphale stared at his face for a long moment, head minutely titled to the side and eyes bright and shrewd, then smiled a small, tight smile at him.

“Good morning, my dear,” he said, a bit guarded. He was studying Crowley as though he was trying to read something off his skin, like a book.

Crowley looked away, feeling suddenly exposed. He scraped a hand over his nape, eying his sunglasses rather wistfully.

“’morning, angel,” he mumbled. What do you say to the men you wished desperately to be in a relationship with, and promptly turned down twice in the span of two weeks?

A _relationship_.

He’d admitted to himself, finally. He was so screwed.

“Are you ready for the day, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, stepping around him to get to the armoire. “Not long, now. And then we’ll be finally done.”

Crowley felt the light words like a blow, heavy and painful. That was it, then. He’d been right. A drunken tumble, which Aziraphale already regretted. Only vague words of seeing each other around and perhaps, if he was very, very lucky, a cup of coffee some evening. He’d been right from the start. How wonderful for him.

“Yes,” he said, because there was nothing else to say, really.

Aziraphale hummed.

“You’d better get going, my dear, or we’ll be late for breakfast.”

There was a harshness in Aziraphale’s words that hadn’t been there before. Or wasn’t there? Crowley couldn’t rightly tell. He nodded, barely with the wherewithal left to take his things with him before slinking into the bathroom.

Aziraphale was gone, by the time he got out. He’d never done that before, disappearing without a word, and Crowley felt his stomach drop, heart thudding painfully in his chest. The room smelt faintly of wine and sex, which was a combination Crowley normally relished, but not that morning. He took the suit he’d packed for the wedding from the armoire, slipping more slowly than usual in the tight black pressed trousers and the white shirt. He knotted a black tie around his neck and completed the look with a white jacket and his formal black shoes.

There was an antique brass mirror standing in a corner, nearly as tall as himself, spotted and opaque from old age, but still clear enough for Crowley to gaze at his reflection. He looked all right, he guessed. He looked tired.

Well, Aziraphale was right about one thing. After that day, he’d be done.

Crowley opened the window and headed out. He walked down the stairs and across the main hall in a cacophony of creaking wood, which seemed even louder now that he was alone. He could hear voices coming from the dinner room, and wasn’t surprised to see the entire family already there, when he skulked in.

“Anthony!” Gabriel boomed, because of course the wanker wouldn’t allow him even one shred of decency, if he could do something about it. “Good morning! Have you lost our brother?”

Crowley blinked, as the entire family turned to look at him, and realised that Aziraphale wasn’t at the table. He’d taken for granted that he’d simply gone ahead without him, but it seemed he’d been mistaken.

“I...”

“He didn’t lose me,” Aziraphale demurely interjected, showing up at his side as though he’d sprung from the wooden beams under his feet. He was wearing a suit of a blinding white, with a white bowtie and white shoes. He shone like the sun, or so it seemed to Crowley. “I was checking something in the gardens and told him to go ahead.”

There was something a bit different in Aziraphale that day, something almost vibrant, like a note suspended in the air. Crowley looked down at him with a naked face and naked eyes, and Aziraphale smiled back, soft and so bright it hurt. He took Crowley’s elbow and gently guided him to the last two places left at the table, while Gabriel stared at them both as though they’d been up to some mischief that he wasn’t completely sure wouldn’t come to bite him in the arse when he least expected it.

Breakfast was a quick affair, after that. Everyone was excited for the wedding, and Aziraphale explained to Crowley that the first guests would start coming around nine o’clock, while the ceremony would be held at ten and the reception would start at half past eleven. Aziraphale would be up and about receiving guests and leading them to their assigned places, but Crowley could simply sit in a corner and play with his phone.

Sandalphon, who apparently spent his entire life eavesdropping what people more interesting than him had to say, scoffed at that, but although his cheeks turned a bit pinker than normal, Aziraphale didn’t seem to be paying him any mind. His entire attention was focused on Crowley, in a way that Crowley found pleasant and slightly unnerving at the same time. There was something not completely right in all that, and Crowley was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

The moment arrived earlier than he thought he would, as the room slowly emptied. Aziraphale straggled behind, and Crowley followed his lead, allowing everyone else to sidle out first. They were alone at the table, when Aziraphale looked away from the glass of orange juice he’d apparently been very busy studying to take a deep, steadying breath and stare at Crowley in the eye.

“We need to talk, my dear,” he declared, as though that wasn’t the most unnerving sentence ever been conceived in the entirety of human history. “After the wedding.”

It wasn’t a question, but Crowley answered anyway.

“Sure, angel.” He swallowed. “After the wedding.”

Aziraphale searched his face for a moment longer, looking for something. Whatever it was, he seemed to find it, since he levelled another bright smile at Crowley before taking his hand and bringing it to his lips. It was a slow, purposeful kiss, an electric press of lips against his bare knuckles, and Crowley shivered as Aziraphale’s eyes bore holes into his own, but didn’t snatch his hand away this time.

“We’d better go, now,” Aziraphale remarked, letting go of his hand, as though that was nothing, as though Crowley’s heart wasn’t trying to climb out of his throat. Crowley nodded, because there was nothing else really left for him to do, and followed Aziraphale out in a daze. That had been the last straw, truly–he was completely confused, now, and his brain had given up on trying to make sense of whatever it was that was going on at the moment. He let Aziraphale drag him into the main hall and push him into a chair, promising him that he’d be there when Aziraphale would come back to collect him. Then Aziraphale was gone in a blur of blinding white, and Crowley was left to his own devices.

With nothing left to do, aside from watching people run this or that way in a rush, Crowley fished his phone out of his pocket and scrolled idly through a few social networks. When even being a busybody turned out to be too much of a bore, he gave up on every pretence of being a functioning adult and opened Candy Crush.

Crowley was replaying the 147th level for the fifth time when he realised that someone was sitting beside him. He frowned, looking up from his phone only to be met with a thick mop of dark hair from somebody rather small with their head shoved into their phone.

“Staring is rude,” that somebody said, after a moment. “Didn’t your parents teach you some manners?”

Crowley, who was sprawled so loosely on his chair that he was one second away from slithering straight onto the floor, drew himself up to his full height. He would not be chided by a snippy dwarf in braces and a suit.

“Didn’t _yours_ teach you not to talk to adults that way?” he shot back, feeling a bit like Aziraphale and a bit like a twit, scolding children about manners and lowering himself to their level in doing so.

The kid scoffed.

“You’re playing Candy Crush on your phone,” he remarked, as though that explained everything.

“So what?” Crowley asked, rather offended.

The kid scoffed again, managing to roll his eyes without losing a beat in his savage scrolling.

“They left you here, out of the way, to sit quietly and play Candy Crush. Did they tell you to stay out of trouble, too?”

Crowley frowned, thinking about Aziraphale’s instructions. Well, perhaps he hadn’t said those words exactly, but Crowley had to admit that the kid did have a point.

“Maybe,” he grumbled. “What’s your name?”

“You first.”

“Why?” Crowley asked, amused despite himself.

“Can’t talk to strangers, promised my mom.”

Crowley couldn’t help but laugh at that. So young and already looking for loopholes. He liked the kid, he decided.

“I’m Crowley.”

“Warlock Dowling.”

That appeared to be the end of their short exchange. Warlock didn’t seem particularly interested in talking with Crowley, and Crowley wasn’t exactly opposed to being left alone. He had the feeling that it wouldn’t last very long.

He wasn’t particularly surprised to be right.

He was finally about to win the blasted level, only a handful of candies left, when a booming voice ruined his score and did nothing to improve his morning.

“Anthony, there you are!” Gabriel exclaimed, followed suit by a second, equally booming voice, calling “Warlock, you little rascal!” just as loudly.

Crowley resignedly lifted his head, while Warlock, who apparently had way more spine than him despite being about ten years old, stubbornly refused to pay attention to anything that wasn’t pixellated candies.

“I see you made friends with the Ambassador’s son, Anthony,” Gabriel cooed, which made for a pretty disturbing picture. Crowley lifted his brows.

“He’s playing Candy Crush,” Warlock piped up, eyes still glued to his phone screen. Whatever sympathy Crowley held for the little weasel shrunk away pretty fast after that, even though he couldn’t really fault the kid for throwing him under the bus. The man in Gabriel’s company, who Crowley surmised had to be Warlock’s father, seemed to be pretty much as exhausting as Gabriel himself.

“I’m sure he is,” Gabriel grinned, before turning to his companion. “This is Anthony, Aaron’s friend.”

“_Aziraphale_’s _partner_,” Crowley grumbled, refusing to give ground on the matter.

“Partner, of course,” Gabriel rectified, his smarmy smile barely dimming at the rebuke. It didn’t escape Crowley’s attention that while Gabriel had conceded Crowley’s point about their relationship, he’d sneakily avoided the matter of Aziraphale’s name entirely. “My bad. Anthony, this is Thaddeus Dowling, the American Ambassador.”

It sounded almost as if Gabriel himself had given the man his post, from the way he was mooning over him. Crowley wasn’t sure whether he was surprised by an American Ambassador being present at the wedding reception of one of Aziraphale’s elitist siblings or not. Probably not.

“Nice to meet you, how do you do?” the Ambassador said rather eagerly, thrusting his hand at Crowley. Everything from the man’s expensive suit to the way he held himself spoke of unerring self-confidence, the blind sort that shifted easily into arrogance without offering a single hint to the person involved about such proceedings. It made for clueless, almost naive egotistic pricks, who had no idea in the slightest they were in fact egotistic pricks. Crowley could understand very well why such a man would get along so magnificently with Gabriel.

“Bit busy right now, but thanks for asking,” Crowley drawled in reply, lazily taking the proffered hand without even bothering to get up or straighten his slouch. His behaviour seemed to puzzle the good Ambassador to no end, while Gabriel looked one step away from a stroke.

The rather tense situation (at least from Gabriel’s perspective, Crowley supposed), was defused by the providential return of Aziraphale. He hurried their way with a slightly alarmed look painted over his soft features, a dusting of pink colouring his cheeks. He looked positively delectable. Crowley tried his best to avoid thinking how low that blush spread, when Crowley’s hand was on his cock.

(And Crowley had seen that for himself, _seen_, he didn’t need to imagine anymore.

That simple thought seemed to turn a switch into his brain, and Crowley was suddenly flooded with pictures and sounds and smells from the night before, like an avalanche, thundering in his blood. It felt like an epiphany of some sort. He knew what was like to touch Aziraphale, now. He knew what his skin felt like, he knew the way his face scrunched when he came. He knew how thick his cock was, he knew how heavy it weighed in his hand.

He _knew_.)

“Good morning, everyone,” Aziraphale greeted them, eyeing the entire assembly and lingering on Crowley’s sprawled form. His and Crowley’s coats were draped carefully over his arm. “We’re almost ready to start.”

“Of course, brother,” Gabriel grinned, “I was just introducing your new beau to the Ambassador. You remember Mr. Dowling, don’t you, Aaron?”

“Of course I remember,” Aziraphale replied, shaking the man’s hand. “How do you do, Mr. Dowling?”

“You have a fine house, a fine house indeed,” the Ambassador drawled, “ and my family and I are delighted to have been invited to such a splendid ceremony. Aren’t we, Warlock?”

“Sure we are,” Warlock mumbled, without even bothering to pry his gaze away from the phone. Having been thrown under the bus or not, Crowley had to admit to a certain sympathy for that prepubescent prick.

“The delight is ours at having you here, Ambassador,” Gabriel piped up. “Just in time before the holidays.”

“Are you planning on flying back to the States for Christmas?” Aziraphale asked. All that polite nattering about was making Crowley’s skin itch.

“That’s the plan, if I can manage to get away for so long,” the Ambassador answered. “Otherwise, I’ll simply send Harriet and Warlock home while I stay here. Warlock doesn’t see his grandparents often enough, and Christmas is about family, am I right?”

Aziraphale had stiffened so minutely at the words that Crowley would’ve missed it, if he hadn’t been so pathetically attuned to the man.

Gabriel’s smirk, instead, had grown two sizes.

“You’re absolutely right, Ambassador,” Gabriel all but purred, making every single one of Crowley’s hairs stand on end. “We don’t really get together for Christmas anymore, unfortunately, but we used to spend every single one of them together, when we were kids. Do you remember, Aaron?”

Aziraphale’s mouth was a straight, hard line, even as he tried to smile.

“I remember.”

“It was nice, having the entire family under one roof. Horsing about. Playing tricks. Have you told your beau about that Christmas? It was fun, wasn’t it? Kids will be kids!”

Aziraphale was standing so straight that Crowley worried he was going to break something.

“Not really, no.”

“You didn’t tell him?” Gabriel mused, throwing a considering glance at Crowley. “I see. It’s _that_ kind of relationship, then.”

Aziraphale looked away, not bothering to answer. Gabriel regarded him for a moment, obviously delighted at having landed a blow, before shrugging and diverting his attention back to the Ambassador.

“Well, we’d better go. Wouldn’t want the ceremony to start without us!”

“Of course not,” the Ambassador replied, tapping his son’s shoulder. “Let’s go, Warlock.”

Warlock answered with a non-committal sort of grunt, but he got up on his feet and followed the two men outside, all without lifting his head from his phone even enough to look where he was going. Those were true skills, right there.

Aziraphale sighed, as they were finally left alone.

“Well,” he said, glancing a bit guardedly at Crowley. “Shall we go as well, my dear?”

Crowley shrugged and jumped on his feet, taking the black coat that Aziraphale was handing him and putting it on. Aziraphale was already slipping into his own, the cream-coloured wool dimming a bit the crisp radiance of his white suit.

Crowley let his gaze linger on that straight back, as Aziraphale picked his way through the decked hall and led him to the gardens. He had to admit that his curiosity had been piqued by that whole Christmas debacle, but he wasn’t completely sure he _wanted_ to know. Christmas at the Fell household sounded like something old nurses in fairytales used as cautionary stories for naughty children, especially as far as Gabriel and his unsettling grin were concerned.

The gardens were full to burst, when they stepped outside. The day was bright, despite the cold, but the tents worked quite well to preserve the warmth pouring out of the heaters set at the centre of every table. Aziraphale led Crowley right to the front, which Crowley didn’t particularly appreciate. Gabriel and his family had their own table, as well as Uriel’s parents and the brides. Metatron was sitting a bit farther away, surrounded by stiff arseholes that made him look like the Godfather with his posse, and that meant that Crowley and Aziraphale were stuck with Sandalphon and his tragically bored partner. What a joy.

Crowley sprawled a bit sullenly on his chair (an ugly piece of plastic hard as stone under his arse), while Aziraphale took a good look around before taking his seat.

“Is Mother not coming?” he asked, looking at his brother.

Sandalphon shrugged.

“She was supposed to be here this morning, but she’s still stuck in Tel Aviv. The University asked her to give a string of guest lectures on Paradoxography, and you know how Mother is.”

“Yes, I do know,” Aziraphale sighed. “Oh, well. I guess we can always send her some recordings.”

“If she can ever be bothered to watch them,” Sandalphon grumbled under his breath, so low that Crowley barely heard him. Aziraphale pretended he didn’t.

The conversation went on for a short while between the two brothers, forced and more than a bit stilted, as they waited for the ceremony to begin. Sandalphon asked awkwardly about Aziraphale’s life in London, and Aziraphale enquired politely about Sandalphon’s job. Crowley was by no means shocked to find out that Aziraphale’s oily brother was a lawyer, even less that he worked for the Prosecutor’s Office in Manchester, of all the damndest places. His sophisticated partner worked there as well, though Crowley didn’t catch exactly in which capacity. He wasn’t particularly taken with that conversation, to be completely honest, and his mind ended up spacing quite a bit.

Crowley wasn’t an idiot, as much as he liked to pretend that he was when it suited him. He knew that the time for dawdling about had come to an end, and that they’d reached an impasse. But what if everything Aziraphale wanted was some nice time, and assumed (quite rightly so, since that was exactly the sort of man Crowley liked to project) that Crowley would be of the same mind? Aziraphale was so tender, so bright. He’d turn Crowley down ever so gently, and break him in a way from which Crowley didn’t think he could ever recover. Being told that he was only wanted for a few tumbles would shatter his heart.

Crowley knew that he couldn’t keep guessing any longer, stepping on glasses and trying to find proper footing while cutting his feet to ribbons. And yet, he was paralysed by uncertainty, terrified of rejection. He was glad that Aziraphale had taken the lead on the matter, because Crowley would’ve waited until the end of time.

Movement at the periphery of his vision nudged him back to the present. Crowley turned to look at Michael and Uriel slowly making their way to the platform, grateful for the distraction. They looked blinding in white, elegant and a bit forbidding in their suits. The minister, a small man that looked well in his seventies, trailed after them like a lost puppy.

The platform had been raised under the clear sky, instead of being covered by a tent, in an obvious gamble against the unpredictable British weather. But the gamble had paid off, and bright sunshine was spilling onto the delicately carved archway, draped in bundles of white roses. A bit traditional as a choice, in Crowley’s opinion, but he hadn’t exactly expected the very proper couple to have festoons of tropical orchids for their very proper wedding.

The service wasn’t supposed to be overly long, but Crowley was already bored to tears halfway through. He’d never understood the appeal of public ceremonies, with all those people looking at something so inherently private and intimate as some sort of entertainment at best and a source of endless tedium at worst. He couldn’t think of anything worse than offering his heart to someone under so many watchful eyes. Fucking in public would’ve been less grating. And he disliked the way society had formalised something so personal, boiling it down to a shape that could be shared by infinite masses without any need to be changed or adapted. A sanitised, universal understanding of love and commitment. Crowley and his ferocious individuality found the concept insulting.

The ceremony slowly crawled on, while Crowley played with the tall glass of sparkling wine that a waiter in frock had placed in front of him, fingering the stem. He threw a glance at Aziraphale. The man was staring at his sister getting married with an odd expression on his face, something between discomfort and longing. Crowley wondered if that was something Aziraphale wanted, being shoved onto a platform to act as the entertainment for a solid hour, or if he just yearned for the commitment. He could ask, of course, but he knew he wasn’t going to.

The exchange of the vows seemed sincere enough, if a bit formal. Everyone cheered at the newly-married couple, and Crowley companionably lifted his glass. He was bored beyond belief, and regretted having left his glasses in Aziraphale’s bedroom. As much as he liked for Aziraphale’s siblings to see the full extent of his contempt in his naked eyes, that was a good bit too many people for his comfort. But it was too late now to do something about it, so up he went, following Aziraphale inside for the reception.

The Fell family had really outdone themselves for the event (and how strange it was, to think of Aziraphale as anything but Aziraphale, while the name came so easily for his siblings). The great hall on the ground floor was packed with people, the high ceilings echoing the bruising noise like mirrors, making the wide space look even fuller than it actually was. It was warmer in there, and both Aziraphale and Crowley shed their coats, draping them over the back of their chairs. They were seated once again with Sandalphon, but at a bigger table, which hosted the brides, Sandalphon and his partner, and Gabriel’s entire family. Uriel’s parents were sitting at another table, together with Metatron and Uriel’s relatives. Everyone seemed happy and a bit tipsy and uninterested in Aziraphale, quiet as a mouse by Crowley’s side. Crowley glanced at him, a bit worriedly, but Aziraphale appeared more lost in his thoughts than dejected, for once. Thinking it best to leave him alone, Crowley sipped at his wine and listened to bits and pieces of the several conversations going around the table, though his focus shifted back to Aziraphale the moment the food started to come and the man happily dug into it with a sigh.

The reception seemed to last forever. At some point between entrées Crowley excused himself and went out, needing a break from the noise. He donned his coat and strolled into the garden, not surprised in the slightest to see more than a few people sitting in the cold to escape the crowd. The heaters were still on, and Crowley relished the warmth brushing his face like a feather as he walked between the half-empty tables. He stuck his hands in his pockets and walked out of the tented area, where the hazels and birches fenced in the carefully mowed lawn. He walked under the low branches of a white ash, naked in the oncoming winter, and found the path that coasted the orderly line of evergreen plants, jutting against the sky. A few clouds had started to gather here and there, but the bright blue was still easy to spot, and it didn’t look like it was going to start raining any time soon.

Aziraphale found him a few moments later, dawdling aimlessly at the very edge of the tented area. Crowley wasn’t surprised that Aziraphale had come looking for him. He was a bit chagrined, however, to have stalled long enough for his absence to be noticed. He didn’t really relish the idea of going back inside, into the crowd. He was bored and uncomfortable and not a little anxious about their supposed talk. He’d had enough of their little retreat in the country, all in all. He wanted to go home.

“Here you are,” Aziraphale murmured gently, stepping in front of him. “Is everything all right, my dear?”

“Yeah,” Crowley answered with a shrug. “Just needed some fresh air.”

“Hmm.” Aziraphale came closer, easily slipping his hand in the crook of Crowley’s elbow. Crowley’s breath stuttered in his chest, and he wondered when his body would stop reacting to Aziraphale’s closeness like it would to a blow. “Let’s go for a walk. There is still some time yet before the dessert.”

Aziraphale led him to a different path from the one they took the day before, bringing them deeper into the gardens instead of away from the house.

“Are you terribly bored, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, his voice barely breaking the steady rustling of gravel under their feet.

Crowley tried to shrug, but he found it difficult, with Aziraphale’s hand on his arm. He didn’t think he’d ever had anyone touching him quite that way, and it choked him, the intimacy of it.

“Not terribly,” he grumbled. “Just bored.”

Aziraphale chuckled at his quip, just as they reached a small clearing, with an iron bandstand fenced in by the evergreens. It was a forbidding, ugly thing, with red rot peeking through where the white paint had peeled off. The fantastically-shaped columns of wrought iron held a circular ceiling made of thick glass, while curved wooden benches followed the bow of the round base.

Crowley could easily imagine Victorian ladies having tea and biscuits under that monstrosity. He allowed Aziraphale to drag him inside, seating them both on a cold, hard bench, which at least wasn’t rotten.

“I’ve always liked this place,” Aziraphale mused. It didn’t come much as a surprise to Crowley. It looked exactly like the sort of thing that Aziraphale would find interesting.

“Did you come here as a kid and think about your rotting ancestors?” Crowley couldn’t help but quip, getting a scoff for his trouble.

“No, you beast. I came here to read. But I did fantasise about the White Rabbit coming out of the bushes. This bandstand looks like something out of a fairytale.”

In Crowley’s opinion, fairytale places shouldn’t look like they were going to collapse on you the moment you weren’t paying attention, but he suspected that his tastes weren’t nearly as refined as Aziraphale’s.

There was a pause in the conversation, after that. Crowley could feel the moment stretching a little, the weight of things not said starting to push, and realised that they were going to have that famous conversation, that it was about to happen right then and there. He could feel it in the back of his neck, hairs standing on end as the tension rose. So he did the only thing he could do, like a sensible adult. He stalled.

“So,” he said, clearing his throat. Aziraphale was still holding his arm, his gloved hand resting softly in the crook of Crowley’s elbow. Crowley could feel the sturdiness and warmth of Aziraphale’s thigh through the thick layer of his coat. “Christmas, uh?”

Aziraphale went stiff and very, very still at that. He’d been looking around with a dreamy sort of gaze, but now he was staring at the bushes as though he was trying to bore a hole through them with his eyes.

“Yes?” he asked, so guarded that Crowley almost rethought his strategy.

Almost.

“What’s been going on at Christmas in this lovely family of yours?”

Aziraphale tensed up even further, and Crowley winced at the flippancy of his own tone. He was about to take it all back, when Aziraphale unclenched his stiff shoulders with a sigh.

“Might as well tell you,” he considered, voice low and a bit subdued. “It’s not like you haven’t seen for yourself how my siblings can be a bit... inconsiderate at times.”

_Inconsiderate_ wouldn’t have been exactly Crowley’s first choice in adjectives, if he had to describe Aziraphale’s family, but for Aziraphale it was quite a leap.

“I’m almost scared, now,” Crowley quipped, and then wondered if he actually ought to be scared of what Aziraphale’s siblings had come up with. They might not have been particularly blatant in their disregard, Gabriel aside, but there was a cruel streak in the way they dismissed their brother. If that was the sort of adults they’d grown up into, Crowley was more than a little worried about the sorts of children they’d been, in that funny age where empathy was a concept way too abstract to grasp.

Aziraphale scoffed.

“Nothing like _that_, my dear. Just a bit of rough play.”

“Alright, now I’m _really_ concerned.”

Aziraphale hummed.

“It was just a game, mind you. Mother was away and we were all alone for the holidays. We were too old for a nanny, so the staff was keeping an eye on us, but we’d been essentially given free rein on the house.”

Crowley could imagine very few things more terrifying than a teenaged Gabriel being given free rein on anything, but he wisely decided to keep that thought to himself.

“Anyway. We were a bit bored, you know, and Gabriel had scrunched up a copy of _The Exorcist_ from God knows where. Mother had a television set and one of those fancy new players, and Gabriel put it on.”

“A fine choice for a merry Christmas,” Crowley couldn’t help to remark.

Aziraphale snorted.

“Yes, well. We were kids.”

And Crowley was pretty sure that no one had ever accused Gabriel of having good taste, but what did he know.

“And that movie scarred you for life?”

Aziraphale shifted at his side.

“Not exactly. Well, I mean, that too, but...”

“But?” Crowley prompted. He was starting to have a very, very bad feeling about where that was leading to.

“Gabriel stopped the movie halfway through, because I was ten and utterly terrified, while my siblings were bored. Even Michael. She was seven and she pointed out that blood didn’t look like that at all.”

Which made Crowley wonder exactly which sort of experiences a seven-year-old might have gone through to have such a deep insight of what blood looked like, but he kept that to himself, too.

“All right, Gabriel behaved like a decent human being for once. Is that what you were so keen on hiding?”

Aziraphale paused again, looking at his feet.

“I told you. My siblings were bored.”

A shiver ran down Crowley’s spine.

“...and?”

“And they decided to exorcise me.”

It took Crowley a long, long moment to let the words sink in.

“They did _what_?!”

Aziraphale shrugged again, looking embarrassed, of all things, as though being related to a bunch of psychopaths was somehow _his_ fault.

“We were children, it was just a game,” he found somehow the strength to defend them. “Gabriel said that the reason I didn’t have a proper name like them was that a demon had possessed me, so I had to be exorcised to become an angel. Michael blessed a bucket of water and Sandalphon dunked my head into it.”

Crowley was appalled. He’d had a few rows now and then with his cousins, and they’d spent most of their time ignoring each other or being needlessly mean, but that was something else. He knew firsthand how cruel rich kids could be, being state-school rubbish, but he’d never thought they would be that cruel to each other.

“Your arsehole siblings tried to _exorcise_ you at _Christmas_?!”

Crowley stared in disbelief as Aziraphale glanced away, his ears pink. He looked _ashamed_. The only reason Crowley was still sitting instead of marching up to the house to throttle Aziraphale’s entire family was that Aziraphale’s hand was resting in the crook of his elbow, and Crowley suspected that Aziraphale could and would hold him there if he made even half a move to get to his feet.

“I knew you’d overreact,” Aziraphale sighed. “You’re making it sound much worse than what it actually was. They ducked my head in a bucket of water a couple of times, nothing more. We were children. Children are stupid.”

Crowley couldn’t believe him.

“I’m sorry, your siblings WATERBOARDED YOU at CHRISTMAS and _I_ am _overreacting_?!”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. He actually _rolled_ his _eyes_, as though Crowley was blowing something so trivial out of proportions. Crowley realised suddenly that Aziraphale wasn’t ashamed of having been bullied by his horrible siblings, which would’ve been bad enough; he was embarrassed of having panicked and got an emotional scarring over some childish game.

Crowley wanted to bash Gabriel’s head in with a shovel.

“It was just a game, and it did make sense,” Aziraphale said with a shrug. “Christmas is the holiest time of the year, after all. And they didn’t waterboarded me, Crowley, for goodness’ sake. There is no need to be so dramatic.”

“_I_ am being _dramatic_?!” Crowley scoffed, a bit wounded that his concern had been so sternly rejected, but Aziraphale’s eyes were hard and wary as he eyed him.

“Yes, you are,” Aziraphale answered, in a tone of voice that left no room for arguments. “It was a long time ago. There is no point in getting upset over something that you can’t change.”

And while Crowley knew that Aziraphale wasn’t essentially wrong, he didn’t think that _not_ getting upset was a possibility, right then and there. The idea that someone could mistreat Aziraphale like that when he was at his most vulnerable made him want to run them over with his car. He did have a few options available, after all.

“You do know that sort of behaviour is not right, don’t you?” Crowley ventured, because if he couldn’t murder in cold blood Aziraphale’s siblings, he could at least make sure that Aziraphale knew that being upset over a shitty childhood was something that was allowed, something he didn’t need to feel ashamed of.

“It was just children being children,” Aziraphale insisted, and Crowley felt something cold and poisonous coil at the pit of his stomach at hearing the echo of Gabriel’s words in Aziraphale’s voice. _Kids will be kids_. “It wasn’t... good, but it was also twenty years ago.”

“Being children doesn’t excuse cruelty.”

Aziraphale snorted, an angry, hollow sound.

“Have you ever _met_ a child, Crowley?” he snipped, before letting go a sigh so deep it sounded as though it’d been ripped from him. “It was nothing, my dear. Something silly that happened a long time ago. Leave it be.”

Crowley had his own opinions about that, which very much did _not_ include looking upon Aziraphale being so mistreated as _nothing_, but he also understood when refusing to let go would do more harm than good. He bit his tongue and said nothing, pushing down the anger that threatened to claw its way out of his throat.

“We should go back,” Aziraphale said, after a moment. The mood had been completely shattered, the comfort of each other’s company melted away under the weight of past memories and old shames. “We’ll be missed.”

Crowley didn’t really think they would, but he tipped his head to the side and nodded, for form’s sake.

“As you say, angel.”

Aziraphale primly brushed his coat as he sat up, making sure that mud and dirt had not marred the pristine white of his suit. He’d been careful to smooth his coat under his bottom when he’d sat down, and although that had saved his pressed trousers, he wasn’t particularly enthusiastic to find out that the pale cream-coloured wool was a bit less cream-looking than before. Crowley chuckled under his breath as Aziraphale tried his level best to dust himself off properly.

“I’ll need to get my coat dry-cleaned again,” Aziraphale grumbled, reaching Crowley at the bottom of the steps and throwing him a harried look. “I just hope it won’t ruin the blend. I’ve kept this coat in top-notch conditions since I bought it and I’m very attached to it.”

“’s just a coat, angel,” Crowley had replied, amused despite himself, “plenty of ‘em to go ‘round.”

Aziraphale replied with another offended scoff, and then they were off again, slowly walking back to the house. Aziraphale didn’t reach for him again, and Crowley eyed the gloved hand gently swaying at Aziraphale’s side a bit wistfully. He thought about all the times he’d let Aziraphale take the lead, and thought about the handful of those where he’d reached out first–a knee bumping under the table, a fleeting brush of his hand. A drunken evening, when he’d pulled down Aziraphale’s pants and taken hold of him. It shouldn’t have been so difficult, now, to close the distance.

Crowley’s heart was drumming in his chest as he reached out, taking Aziraphale’s hand in his. He held his breath, as Aziraphale’s sedate pace faltered, and the man turned to look back at him. His eyes were wide, his lips slightly parted in surprise, and Crowley thought about stooping down and kissing him in the wintry silence of the meadow, as the day wasted by. Aziraphale’s hazy gaze slipped down from his eyes, lingering on his mouth, and Crowley felt the blood rush into his ears like a scream, drowning out the world.

Then Aziraphale sighed, a soft, regretful sound, and squeezed his hand back.

“We’re almost done, my dear,” he said again, and Crowley thought for the first time that it didn’t sound like a threat–it sounded like a promise.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely people <3  
I know, it _is_ a bit early for an update, even for my standards! But I wanted to do something special to celebrate the 100k words threshold this story has happily burst through, and since your response to the last two chapters has been so utterly amazing, I decided that a little tweaking to my schedule would do. I would’ve never thought that something I wrote would receive this sort of love, nor I would’ve ever dreamt that this story would become such a monster, so here we are: a bit of sugar for my readers, to thank you for all the honey you poured over my work.  
That said! Talking about love, I’m still amazed and horribly flattered by the delightful [art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23230717) that [uponwhatgrounds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uponwhatgrounds/pseuds/uponwhatgrounds) made for me. It was such a lovely gesture, one that I hadn’t expected at all and that has been hugely appreciated. I cannot thank the artist enough <3  
Last but not least, I decided to add a few more chapters to the expected final count. I’m a bit ahead with my writing, and 20 has become a number laughable enough to convince me to push it up to 25. That also is nothing more than a probable estimate, so don’t be too surprised if it’ll get changed again.  
I hope you all will like the chapter <3

There was some commotion going on, as they stepped back inside the main hall. A heavy screen in wrought iron had been placed in front of the huge fireplace on the eastern side of the room, a stone thing cleverly carved in fantastic animals hanging out of delicately curled cornucopias, and a real fire was twisting and crackling behind the elaborate latticework. The fire offered a rather dramatic backdrop to the antique loveseat right in front of it, on which both brides had taken their place. The bright white of their suits seemed to shine against the pale blue of the padding and the dancing flames.

Crowley’s brows quirked up, as he took in the sight. People were actually _queuing_ to speak with the brides, as though they were a bloody royal couple granting audience to their loyal subjects, and with the white festoons hanging from the ceiling and the entire silly get-up of their ridiculous mansion, the scene looked vaguely surreal. Crowley wasn’t exactly an expert on marriages and the like (that had been his very first, and if there were a God it would also be his very last), but he didn’t think the happy couple was supposed to aim so blatantly for the mob overlords look. But what did Crowley know about romance, after all? The closest thing he got in his life was Aziraphale gently holding his hand.

(And how terrifying, to realise that he craved tenderness when he couldn’t even get people to stick around long enough to date him properly. A tragic comedy, his life was.)

He heard Aziraphale sigh softly at his side, and turned to see him fish an envelope out of the deep pockets of his coat. Crowley frowned at the _Aaron_ inked in elegant copperplate on the back. It was the living proof that Aziraphale didn’t even _try_ to impose his own name and choices to his family; he acquiesced. Crowley found himself hating the thought. The bastards would simply take Aziraphale’s behaviour as the final proof that they’d been right from the start, after all, and Aziraphale had finally shed all that nonsense that made him who he was. It hurt in a way that Crowley didn’t really know how to define. It stung, raising a wave of vague, directionless anger in its wake.

“I should go as well, my dear,” Aziraphale said, fidgeting a little with the envelope in his hands. “You can stay here.”

Crowley aimed a disbelieving look at him. If Aziraphale really thought that Crowley was going to leave him alone with his horrible family after hearing that nightmarish Christmas tale, he had another thing coming.

“I think I’ll be tagging along for this one, angel.”

Aziraphale blinked at him, looking a bit taken aback at the offer, but eventually his frown smoothed out, and his lips stretched into a warm smile. It was the same smile Aziraphale had given him when Crowley bumped his knee under the table, the same smile he’d given him that night at the Indian restaurant, what felt like ages before. A smile that trickled honey, cloying and sickly sweet and so painfully perfect that Crowley had to look away, pretending to be very busy taking off his coat and folding it over the back of his chair. Aziraphale did the same, and then they were both off joining the queue.

The brides offered them polite and utterly empty smiles when they reached them, pasted on faces that looked cold at best and dismissive at worst. There was a brittle shine to them, like the reflection of the sun on glass. They looked beautiful the way blades did, all sharp edges and smooth skin. Michael was blond and pale where Uriel was dark and full-lipped, and they complimented each other like the right hand and the left. Their eyes had the same glow. And they looked at Aziraphale the same way, like a thing to be swept quickly under the rug.

Crowley stood there struggling not to clench his fists.

“My congratulations to you, my dears,” Aziraphale was saying, handing over his gift. “I wish you both all the happiness in the world.”

“Thank you, brother,” Michael said politely, as Uriel opened the envelope. There was something that looked like a small leaflet inside, and Uriel perused it shortly, before handing it over to Michael.

“It’s an antique Victorian cabinet,” Aziraphale quickly offered, as Michael looked at the pictures of a wooden monstrosity next to which Aziraphale had been photographed to lend some measure of comparison. “Handmade in solid oak and heavily carved, with shutters in bottle glass. I had it completely restored and ready to be shipped. Those are the company’s details. You only have to call the number and give them the address, and the cabinet will be delivered within three days.”

Michael tilted her head slightly, as Uriel slipped the leaflet back inside the envelope. There was a small array of opened gift boxes growing at their feet, and a tidy pile of white envelopes stashed between them on the pale padding of the loveseat. Uriel placed Aziraphale’s gift on the very top, neatly and indifferently. The white envelope looked anonymous, like that. A leaf on a wind-swept courtyard in an autumn afternoon, as though all the care and thought Aziraphale had put into it meant nothing. A drop in the ocean.

“Lovely. Thank you, Aaron.”

“Yes, thank you,” Uriel echoed her wife, her dark eyes pausing a moment on Aziraphale before shifting away.

Crowley saw the struggle, as Aziraphale fought to keep a smile on his face. It was a dismissal as cruel as all the ones that had come before, even and polite and utterly devastating. It had taken Aziraphale months to put that gift together, and Michael had barely looked at it.

“You’re both very welcome, of course,” Aziraphale answered, bowing his head a little. “We’d better go. We’re holding up the queue.”

Crowley followed him closely as Aziraphale turned and left, shoulders stiff and back straight. Crowley yearned to touch him, to make that painful moment go away, but he didn’t know how, and he couldn’t help but feel like an interloper every time he tried to talk to Aziraphale about the monumental bag of arseholes that his family was. Aziraphale seemed deaf to any overt criticism, and Crowley was quickly reaching the end of his rope on how to deal with that sort of situation. He wasn’t good with words, never had been, and wasn’t equipped to understand that sort of heartbreak. Anger he could get, neglect, loneliness, but that need to be accepted at all costs was utterly foreign to him. He’d never tried to be part of his uncle’s family. He’d left as soon as he’d been able to, and never looked back. He couldn’t understand Aziraphale’s attempts at clinging to something that was simply going to hurt him over and over and over, but then again, not everyone shared Crowley’s utter inability to handle rejection.

The mood wasn’t the brightest as they sat back at their table, even if Aziraphale was obviously trying his best to lighten up. Sandalphon took a good look at him and then stood up, barely returning the weak smile that Aziraphale offered him.

“My turn, I guess,” Sandalphon said, ambling towards the dwindling queue. His partner didn’t make a move to stand up. She lit up a cigarette and looked for all the world as if she was rethinking all her life choices and contemplating the idea of moving to Alaska and starting anew.

An obnoxious laugh caught their attention. Gabriel and the American Ambassador had made their way to the fireplace and the brides sitting in front of it, and they were chattering rather loudly about who knew what. Both their families were hanging at the edges of the group, looking mostly indifferent to the proceedings. The Ambassador’s wife was the only one who seemed vaguely uncomfortable, her hand resting on Warlock’s shoulder. The kid, always the smartest of the bunch, showed no sign to be about to lift his head from his phone any time soon.

Crowley tipped his body slightly towards Aziraphale.

“You say the word,” he whispered in his ear, “and I’ll waterboard Gabriel’s pretentious arse with the fruit punch.”

That startled a delightfully horrified giggle out of Aziraphale.

“At least _try_ to behave, my dear,” he chided him, but with no bite. Crowley answered with a smirk to the half-hearted rebuke, and drained Aziraphale’s glass when the man wasn’t looking. The scoff he got for his trouble more than made up for it.

The gift hoarding seemed to take up an inordinate amount of time, in Crowley’s opinion. But a glance at his expensive watch told him that it was already three in the afternoon, and that meant that they’d be on the road soon. Crowley realised with a start that he hadn’t seen his Bentley in two days now, and he suddenly yearned to sit behind the wheel and drive for a stretch, just for the pleasure of feeling the smooth leather under his hands and the purring of the engine in his ears.

After the last loyal subjects had presented their tribute, the brides offered their guests a brief thanking speech, perfectly polite and utterly devoid of any sort of gratitude whatsoever, and then took their places back at their table for the dessert. Gabriel and his family refused to let their bodies be sullied by such an onslaught of refined sugar, while Aziraphale didn’t even try to hide his delight at the chocolate parfait the waiter placed in front of him. He offered Crowley a bite, which Crowley refused with a laugh.

“I would never do something as cruel as stealing dessert from your plate, angel.”

Aziraphale huffed, slipping a spoonful of parfait into his mouth. He smiled around the bite, eyes sparkling in pleasure.

“Your loss, my dear. It’s absolutely divine.”

Crowley watched with rapt attention as Aziraphale carefully gathered melted chocolate with his spoon. There was something endless enticing in the delicate, methodical precision of Aziraphale’s gestures, something that spoke to Crowley’s very bones.

“Besides,” Aziraphale added, rather carelessly, entirely focused on the task at hand, “you told me about your eating habits, and I’m frankly amazed you managed to keep that lovely physique for so long with that penchant of yours for junk food. You should let me feed you a bit more often.”

Aziraphale’s voice dropped, as the sentence left his mouth. Something seemed to fizzle between them as Aziraphale lifted his eyes from the plate, seeming for a moment to forget everything in the room that wasn’t Crowley.

Crowley’s breath caught under the weight of Aziraphale’s full attention, blue eyes studying Crowley’s face with a focus that was almost predatory.

“I wonder if you would let me,” Aziraphale carried on, low and thoughtful. There was an odd quality to his voice, almost as if he was talking to himself. His eyes were boring holes into Crowley’s.

The pressure of that stare slithered down Crowley’s spine like a shiver. He had to look away.

“What are you on about?” he grumbled, the hairs on his nape standing on end. The moment felt charged in a way that Crowley usually associated with sex, but they were talking about chocolate parfait, for crying out loud. No need to get so excited over dessert. “I always let you choose where we are going to eat. Even _what_ we are going to eat, most of the time.”

Aziraphale’s stare lingered for a moment longer, clinging to Crowley like static energy. Then Aziraphale hummed under his breath and returned his attention to his plate, and Crowley could breathe again. He had no idea what had just happened, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

The atrocious gathering lasted for another endless hour, before people finally started to trickle out. Aziraphale had his share of goodbyes and handshakes to endure, and he did so with remarkable grace, even when Gabriel interrupted him or Michael and her wife haughtily disregarded him. Crowley watched the interactions from his sprawl by their table, mouth set in a grimace but still the outsider, unwilling to step into a potentially explosive situation and make things even worse for Aziraphale. He knew that Aziraphale wouldn’t thank him for it, but it was hard just to sit and watch all the small, cruel slights his siblings were throwing his way.

Then, it was finally time to go. Crowley followed Aziraphale up to their room and packed their things, while Mr. Young brought the Bentley out of storage. Someone had taken the time to clear up the empty bottle with the dirty glasses and to make up the bed, which Crowley greatly appreciated. The last thing he wanted was for Aziraphale to have any unsolicited reminder of Crowley making an absolute arse out of himself, especially since they were supposed to talk soon, whatever that meant.

It wasn’t a particularly welcome thought. Crowley had done his best to avoid brooding about it, but it’d been getting increasingly difficult, as the day dragged by. Aziraphale’s easy smile helped a little, though, and Crowley found himself listening carefully to the rather dull history of the Victorian stables belonging to the Fell estate, refitted into a garage in the early forties. Aziraphale’s excited blabbering carried on as they walked down the stairs with their travel bags slung over their shoulders, and Crowley couldn’t help the sudden spike of selfish relief at the obvious eagerness with which Aziraphale had left his old room behind.

They found the Bentley in the courtyard, parked right in front of the main entrance. Crowley snatched his keys from Mr. Young’s outstretched hand and crossed the small distance in wide strides, stroking the bonnet a bit wistfully before opening the door. It felt good being back to his car, with his dark glasses safely planted onto his face. It felt familiar.

Crowley slung both their bags onto the back seat and stashed Aziraphale’s tartan umbrella behind the front seats. Then he closed the door and joined Aziraphale, who was currently speaking with his siblings. He was back in his cream-coloured coat, his curly cotton-tuft hair hidden under his fedora. He looked brighter than anyone else.

“Oh, here you are, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, fingers brushing Crowley’s elbow. “I was just saying goodbye.”

“Yeah, goodbye,” Crowley grumbled, and then added, because he wasn’t a savage: “Thank you for your hospitality.”

He pondered about sticking a further ‘it was a pleasure to meet you’ to that polite sentence, but there were lies that even he wasn’t brazen enough to tell.

“Don’t mention it,” Gabriel said, with a magnanimous sweep of his hand. Sandalphon was a bit farther away, busy talking in hushed tones to his partner, and the newly-married couple was chatting with Metatron and Uriel’s parents. “I’m glad Aaron wasn’t completely alone. Weddings can be unpleasant, when you’re fresh out of a failed relationship. Or so I’m told.”

Crowley thanked all the gods he knew that he wouldn’t have to put up with Gabriel’s oily smile a moment longer. It was getting harder and harder to remain civil, let alone polite.

He was so caught up in his own internal struggle to keep quiet and avoid embarrassing Aziraphale even further that he almost missed the man’s answer.

“My name is Aziraphale,” he said, something hard and so very brave in his deceptively quiet voice. “Could you please stop calling me Aaron? You know I don’t like it.”

Crowley whipped his head around to stare at him. Aziraphale was looking at Gabriel with steely eyes, standing tall and composed, hands clasped over his belly. He didn’t look defiant, but he didn’t look like he was going to back down either. Crowley felt something very close to pride swell in his chest at the sight, something that he didn’t really know what to make of. It was such an intimate sentiment to experience, that sense of satisfaction about someone else over something that didn’t involve him in the slightest. It made it more personal than sexual attraction, more personal than love. As much as Crowley felt himself orbiting around Aziraphale in ellipses that kept getting tighter and tighter, it was way too soon for that. And yet.

Gabriel too was staring at Aziraphale. He was staring at him as though he was struggling to recognise him, as though he wasn’t too sure about who was standing in front of him right then and there. And then he started laughing. He laughed at his brother’s brave attempt at standing up to him in a loud, booming voice, attracting everyone’s attention. Both his wife and his kids were watching the scene unfolding in front of them, quietly polite and utterly indifferent. They were standing a few steps away, each of the woman’s hands on the shoulder of one of her children.

“Oh, Aaron. I’m sorry, I don’t think I can call you with that silly made-up name. You must agree with me. You’re not a kid anymore, and at your age it just sounds dumb. You’re too old to go about and play make-believe. You’re an adult, and I think it’s high time you start to behave as one.”

Crowley could feel Aziraphale physically shrink at the mocking laugh, at the insulting words, losing his shine, shoulders hunching forwards to make himself small, make himself invisible. Fury was rippling under Crowley’s skin, and he clenched his fists, not quite poised yet to make a scene, but getting there at impossible speed.

Gabriel’s violet eyes shifted, then, pausing on Crowley. There was something baleful shining under the bright, glazed surface. Something cruel, and blind to its own cruelty. Something that had been cruel for a very, very long time.

“And you,” Gabriel said, pointing a finger at Crowley. “You shouldn’t encourage him with that kind of nonsense. Robert never did.”

That was more than enough, more than he could tolerate. Crowley bared his teeth.

“Robert can go fuck himself,” he hissed, “and so can you.”

Gabriel’s entire face twisted, then. He recoiled, almost as if he’d been slapped. He was obviously not used to people disrespecting him, and for a moment something hilariously close to shock flitted across his face, before his eyes turned icy, the set of his mouth vicious. Crowley gritted his teeth, bracing for the upcoming blow.

“What a disappointment you are, Aaron,” Gabriel declared, calm and clear and utterly devastating. “You graduated at Cambridge, top of your class, and ended up checking used books in and out to a bunch of students who are going to do more in life than you will ever accomplish.” A scornful snort. “You are a waste, Aaron. We all think it. Mother thinks it, too. She’s too polite to tell you herself, but trust me: she’s just as disappointed in your failure of a life as we all are. And now you bring _this_ to your sister’s wedding? How low would you actually sink to bring embarrassment to your family?”

It cut. It cut deep, and it cut low. Gabriel was cleverer than Crowley had given him credit for, sinking his claws in all the soft, tender bits, and shredding them to ribbons. Crowley did his best to keep still, because flinching would’ve told the tosser exactly the extent of the damage, and how to twist the knife to get optimal results. He’d met his share of bullies, and he knew that the best way to deal with them was not to give them ground, to hide where it hurt.

Aziraphale had gone perfectly still by his side, stiff and white as a sheet. He looked one step away from collapsing. Fury roiled in Crowley’s blood, threatening to spill.

“That’s enough,” he said, and meant every word. “Let’s go, _Aziraphale_.”

Aziraphale seemed glued to the spot, and for a terrifying moment Crowley wondered if he’d stay, after all, and try to make amends to imaginary slights to his shite family, instead of coming back with him. He wondered if that was the end, and he would be given the shattered pieces of his broken heart on a platter and told to leave the premises, because no one needed a lovesick fool hanging around. A nothing, a nobody, a nuisance that made everyone breathe more easily when gone. A problem.

Then Aziraphale seemed to stir back to life. He blinked, chin tilting towards the ground. A flush of colour washed over his cheeks, turning his look from sickly pale to feverish. Shame poured out of him in waves so thick that Crowley could almost taste it, and it made his stomach churn.

“...yes,” Aziraphale said, so low Crowley had to strain his ear to listen. “We’d better... we’d better go. Thank you for inviting us, it was a lovely wedding. Goodbye.”

No one said a word in the silence. All the conversations had stopped during Gabriel’s tirade, and now everyone was staring at Aziraphale like they would at a caged animal in a zoo, something between curiosity and cool detachment. There wasn’t any overt glee in their faces, Gabriel aside, but Crowley didn’t think that the vague embarrassment was much better, as if Aziraphale had been caught with his pants around his knees in church.

Crowley took Aziraphale’s arm, leading him towards the Bentley. Aziraphale let him, looking for all the world like he was walking in a dream, allowing Crowley to pull him about because he couldn’t rewire his brain enough to make that decision for himself.

Crowley was holding the door open for him, when Gabriel’s voice rang one last time in the heavy silence.

“Goodbye, _Aaron_.”

It took Crowley everything he had not to run the bastard over on his way out.

* * *

The drive back was long, and quiet. There was some sort of mourning feeling to it, as though someone had died and they’d been left to deal with the aftermath. The way Aziraphale was staring out of the window reminded Crowley of their first trip, with misery staining the silence instead of rippling with anxious energy, and a distance between them that he didn’t know how to bridge. He’d dreaded the talk they were supposed to have, but that was not how he’d hoped he would get out of it.

He considered reaching out and brushing Aziraphale’s knee, so tantalisingly close to the hand he kept on the stick, but he wasn’t quite sure that Aziraphale would welcome or need a touch, right then and there. That weekend had been the stuff of nightmares, _real_ nightmares, the sorts of nightmares you told your therapist about, but even Crowley struggled to wrap his head around the level of unpleasantness that Aziraphale’s siblings had reached by the end. It’d been almost as if the thin coat of politeness they’d kept up during the previous days had grown so thin that the rotting core underneath had peeked out, garish and unpleasantly ripe. And how could you comfort someone who had just been spurned by the very people he wanted to be recognised by, with ruthless cruelty on top of it? A bland touch from a passing acquaintance seemed such inadequate a thing.

Crowley’s grasp on the steering wheel was so tight his knuckles were bone-white with it. He felt useless, and powerless, a combination that he loathed with painful passion. It reminded him of being a kid that no one really wanted, forced to stay under the same roof with that drunkard of his uncle and his resentful cousins without any means of getting away. He’d promised himself he’d never, ever allow anyone else to make him feel the same way again, and yet there he was, with the sticky, prickling tendrils of yet another disapproving family winding up in thick spires around his ankles. And he was the outsider who couldn’t even take the decision to send everyone to hell this time, and had been forced to stand aside, watching them grind Aziraphale down to nothing.

And Aziraphale had been so wondrously brave, standing up to them after all those years. Crowley was pretty sure that attempts at toppling the established pecking order had been rarer than diamonds in the Fell family. And being squashed down like that, brutally, cruelly, had probably been harsher than all those little acts of dismissal to which Aziraphale had to be used to by now. Crowley would understand if Aziraphale needed some time to think, to process. But he wanted Aziraphale to know that Crowley was there, if Aziraphale needed him. Perhaps not exactly what Aziraphale wanted, but Crowley would do his very best.

(He could hear himself plead with a teary voice every time Aziraphale was in range. What a pathetic thing he was.)

The mood seemed to lift a little, as they got near the city. The sight of London traffic appeared to cheer Aziraphale up, as strange as that sounded, and as Crowley manoeuvred his Bentley a little more daringly than what was strictly legal around a lorry, Aziraphale finally got aware enough of his surroundings to grip the handle above his head with a sharp intake of breath and shoot Crowley a rather displeased glower.

“Is this sort of speed really necessary?” he grumbled, before pointing a finger at an oncoming car with a quite alarmed: “Watch out, _watch out_!”

“Glad that my driving got you out of your funk, angel,” Crowley bit back, because he didn’t really know how to tackle problems without coating them with a thick layer of sarcasm beforehand. He didn’t really have any time to worry about the flippancy of his answer, though, since Aziraphale scoffed and looked away.

“Yes, well.” A beat. “I haven’t been very good company, I’m afraid. I apologise.”

Crowley shrugged.

“It was a quiet trip, but I don’t mind quiet. Better than you screaming at every passing car.”

“I do not _scream_, you beast,” Aziraphale grumbled, still hanging onto the handle for dear life. “And I wouldn’t need to dole out very sensible and very _obvious_ safety tips if you weren’t such a demon behind the wheel, my dear.”

“A demon, now,” Crowley snorted. “I like that.”

He was rewarded with a pointed sniffle, and while the conversation didn’t really pick up after that little exchange, the silence clung a bit lighter as they shuffled through the London traffic at a speed that apparently could be perceived in wildly different ways, depending on the demon behind the wheel or the angel plastered against the seat.

* * *

There was something rippling the air between them, as the Bentley approached Soho. Crowley felt it like static energy, bristling the short hairs on his nape, brushing his skin. The weight of things not said hung like a curtain over their heads, gossamer and delicate and so incredibly sensitive that it shifted at every intake of breath. Aziraphale seemed to feel it too, now that his horrible siblings and that nightmarish mansion were well behind them. He’d grown tense beside Crowley, lost in thought and fidgeting, both of them waiting for the other shoe to drop. Crowley pretended to be very focused on the road, and left to Aziraphale the responsibility of the first move. Making decisions wasn’t really Crowley’s strong suit, as past events seemed to prove. He was much better at taking dumb actions and then running for cover. That really said something about him, he guessed. Probably that he was a cowardly git, but it didn’t really change the fact that they were fast approaching Aziraphale’s block (or at least as fast as Aziraphale and his disapproving glares allowed), and Crowley was holding his breath hoping and dreading at the same time that Aziraphale would just approach the subject, and kill once and for all that unbearable tension. It’d got to the point where Crowley didn’t rightly know whether it would be worse having his heart shattered or waiting for the worst to happen.

He didn’t have to wait long, all in all.

“Would you like to come over, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, as his building block came into sight. “I have a bottle of Château Lafite in my flat that I was rather hoping I could share with you.”

It felt like the oddest déjà-vu, as though they’d been there before and that was merely repetition. But they _had been_ there before, after all. A memory that Crowley didn’t really care to replay, not even in his mind.

A thrill of something slithered down his spine. Aziraphale had tried to sound casual about it, but there was something in his voice anything but, like an undercurrent, roiling and breaking and lapping at every word. Something tense and a little hopeful, that Aziraphale was trying to disguise. Crowley was obviously rubbing off on him. But who could blame him? The man had been spurned more often than anyone else would’ve allowed, and yet there he was, still trying. All of a sudden, Crowley didn’t really know why he’d kept shying away for so long. He was so well and thoroughly hooked, by now, that even pulling away would rip him apart. He was committed, whether he wanted it or not. It was about time to be a man about it and see it to its bitter end. It wouldn’t be the first time he got his heart bruised and stomped over, after all. What was one more heartbreak?

“Sure, angel,” he answered, a bit lower and more subdued than he’d meant to. But Aziraphale didn’t seem to take exception to his lack of enthusiasm, and reached out to the hand Crowley had on the stick. It was just a brushing touch, his soft palm resting for a moment against the back of Crowley’s hand, but it was enough to spark a shiver down Crowley’s spine. It chimed like a promise. It also did wonders to calm Crowley down a bit, as he struggled to find a damn parking lot in central London without turning to murder.

Crowley knew what was to come, now. Aziraphale would be the perfect host, hovering over him, making sure he was seated nice and comfortable in his flat with a glass of wine in his hand, and after a little polite nattering, because God forbid they could be anything even close to direct, he would eventually get to the point and give Crowley the famous talk that had been brewing for _days_. It all got a bit fuzzy after that, since Crowley still had no idea what would come out of it, but everything else up to that was nearly a certainty. It did very little to soothe his frayed nerves, as he found a parking spot not too far from Aziraphale’s house where to abandon his poor neglected car, but it gave him some structure. Having at least _some_ expectations for the dark times to come was better than walking blindly into whatever came next, Crowley had always found. And the idea that Aziraphale had kept a bottle of something in his flat, waiting to share it with Crowley, was warming his weary flesh down to his very bones.

The walk from the car park to Aziraphale’s house was short, and quiet. The sky was dark over their heads, the air bracing and full of familiar noises. It was well past seven in the evening, and people were out and about, chattering between themselves or rushing home. The city was lit up like a Christmas tree, vibrant and lively, a far cry from the hushed darkness of the countryside. Crowley fidgeted with the strap of Aziraphale’s travel bag, which he had offered to carry, and followed Aziraphale’s lead, desperately trying to project an aura of casual disinterest that he was struggling to put together. Aziraphale looked simply nervous, all fidgeting hands and harried little side glances thrown at Crowley whenever he thought that Crowley wasn’t looking.

(Silly man. He didn’t know yet that Crowley was _always_ looking.)

Aziraphale dropped his keys twice as he tried to open the front door of his building, and almost got head-butted when Crowley tried to pick them up for him, the second time. Aziraphale chuckled at the near accident, which prompted a grin from Crowley, lowering the tension of a much needed notch as they made their way up a winding set of stairs that had probably been there long enough to have seen men in tall hats huffing and puffing as they climbed the steps. The walls were covered in a peeling, cream-coloured wallpaper that had seen better days, and the worn-out banister had the dull shine of constant use. The iron tip of Aziraphale’s tartan umbrella tapped against the wooden stairs in a steady, soothing rhythm as they reached his floor.

“I’m sorry for the mess and... well, the general state of the place,” Aziraphale fussed as they approached his door, as old and run down as everything else in the building. “I don’t have many visitors.”

Crowley, who wasn’t sure he liked the idea of stranger men walking into Aziraphale’s flat, couldn’t really say he minded. He was too busy wondering a bit begrudgingly how often the dreamy neurosurgeon had got to accompany Aziraphale home to maintain a good handle over his stupid mouth.

“I don’t really have people over either,” he distractedly confessed, only to chide himself rather harshly when Aziraphale casted a surprise glance his way.

“Really? I thought... well.” He was fussing with his keys once again, trying to open the door. Crowley found it rather endearing. “I was going to say that I thought you’d have people over all the time, but it does sound rather rude.”

Crowley laughed, amused and hopelessly fond.

“Anathema has been singing my praises, I see,” he chuckled, watching in fascination as colour spread over Aziraphale’s cheeks. “I don’t...” he started, and stopped just in time, before he could do something as idiotic as spilling the miserable truth.

But it was too late, it seemed.

“Hmm? You don’t...?” Aziraphale repeated, halting his fussing about with the keys to shoot him a piercing look, with eyes that were suddenly very focused and very, very sharp. Crowley felt the weight of them pin him down, strong and pointed and relentless, and looked away in mild panic.

“Nothing, angel,” he tried to deflect, but Aziraphale didn’t seem in the right mood to let him wriggle away this time.

“Didn’t sound like nothing,” he shot back, before turning soft, his hand warm and lovely as he took Crowley’s. “You can tell me. What is it that you don’t do?”

“I don’t really... see as many people as Anathema thinks,” he eventually ground out, feeling with a spike of absolute horror the tip of his ears warm up in embarrassment. “It gets... it gets old, after a while. Or maybe I got old. Tired of being disappointed.”

Aziraphale was studying his face with the same focus he’d use to read a book. Suddenly, Crowley was glad for his sunglasses. They didn’t hide much, so up close, but they were better than nothing.

“I see,” Aziraphale murmured, eyes so wide they seemed to devour the world. There was an odd stillness to him, as though every nerve group in his body was busy analysing some foreign impulse. “I _do_ see, now.”

Crowley squashed any single thought that ominous sentence had sparked into his brain, and offered Aziraphale one of his usual smarmy grins. If there was a slightly quivering to it, Crowley most resolutely ignored it.

“Well,” he quipped, aiming for light, and landing just short of breathless, “what _I_ would like to see, it’s that bottle you promised.”

Aziraphale’s eyes lingered on his face a moment longer, before a slight, vague smile blossomed on his face.

“Yes, of course,” he murmured, going back to fuss with his keys, all the while without relinquishing his grasp on Crowley’s hand. Crowley relished the touch, how grounding it felt. The subtly calming certainty of being held, if only his hand.

Aziraphale opened that door much more quickly than the one before, and then he was pulling Crowley inside. Crowley allowed himself to be led, and soon he was enveloped in what looked like a set from a 1940 mystery movie, with worn-out, old-fashioned furniture cluttering a place with way too many carpets and spreads and books to be comfortable. There was the same kind of peeling cream-coloured wallpaper on the walls, almost blotted out by the piles of books scattered pretty much everywhere, in dangerously precarious balance and so charmingly Aziraphale that Crowley for a moment felt like the entire flat was holding him in the same way his hand was being held by Aziraphale’s. There was such warmth embedded in every single object that Crowley almost felt the heat of it on his skin. It was a far cry from the impersonal room he’d seen at the Fell mansion in the country, and it soothed something deep inside Crowley, this proof that _that_ was Aziraphale’s house, his place, his _home_.

He’d been right, after all. That was where Aziraphale belonged. Not some cold mansion in the middle of nowhere, ridden with heartbreak and bad memories.

“This place is a fire hazard,” Crowley grumbled, because he _had_ to say something a bit scathing. He’d given away too much already. Covering up the rest was obviously the best strategy.

Aziraphale chuckled at that. He let go of Crowley’s hand to chuck his keys in a bowl by the door and put his umbrella in a heavy-looking rack that seemed entirely too crowded to fill the needs of a single man. He looked incongruously pale and so bright it hurt in the warmly lit flat, chocked full with quaint old lamps, hanging from the walls or holding a precarious position on book-ridden furniture. Aziraphale hung both their coats and his fedora to the tall hanger by the door and then proceeded to light up a few of them, adding to the soft glow of the ceiling lighting but not enough to make a real difference. Crowley refused to let himself be charmed by the clutter of the place, but it was a lost battle, and he knew it.

“Take a seat, my dear,” Aziraphale urged him, waving in the direction of the worn-out couch surrounded on every side by an encroaching army of books. “I’ll get the wine and some glasses. You can leave my bag by the door.”

Crowley inhaled deeply. The flat smelt like old books and old leather and _Aziraphale_, in a way that he couldn’t really explain. It was a soothing sort of smell. Everything was going how Crowley had imagined it would, but it’d still be difficult to sit and wait for everything to unfurl. Fortifying himself for the talk that was to come, Crowley gently set down the bag and took a step towards the couch, only to be stopped short by Aziraphale’s suddenly hard eyes and firm voice.

“Actually, no.”

Crowley hesitated, looking at him in confusion. Aziraphale took a step forward, then another, and then he was close enough to touch. Close enough, it turned out, to reach for Crowley’s glasses and, after a short pause to allow him to slip out of range, if he really didn’t want that, to take them off. Aziraphale’s eyes were soft and tender in a way that was almost painful to watch, as he carefully folded Crowley’s sunglasses and peered at his face with a small, secret smile.

“There you are,” Aziraphale purred. “As handsome as ever.”

Crowley knew he was good looking, he knew it in the utilitarian way good-looking people knew they could get the sort of attention they wanted with minimal effort, but it sounded different coming from Aziraphale’s lips. Crowley wasn’t sure whether it was the low, caressing voice he’d used, or the piercing eyes, but it felt real, it felt different, and it felt deliciously filthy. Like something Crowley should be proud of, in a way, but not because being beautiful was a gift, no. Because it pleased Aziraphale.

The thought poured down his spine like a shiver, making his breath stutter. He had no idea what his face was showing, but the soft look in Aziraphale’s eyes turned pointed, almost predatory. Gone was the dejected man Crowley had seen during the weekend, and gone was the fussy librarian. Crowley wasn’t sure who was standing right now in front of him, but he looked a bit like the man he’d seen here and there, when Aziraphale was relaxed, and content, and more himself than he usually allowed. Self-assured and firm and, for the first time, blatantly hungry.

“Forget about the wine,” Aziraphale said, in a low, almost gravelly rumble. He studied Crowley’s face for a moment, then stashed his sunglasses carefully on a low cabinet covered in books. “If you don’t want this, my dear, now would be the time to tell me.”

Crowley didn’t feel like he could talk at all, right then and there, even less like he could deny Aziraphale anything. He’d known that, if the moment came, he wouldn’t be able to refuse him again. He’d known that as intimately as his own flesh, his own blood. He’d tried to hold on as long as possible, tried to stave off the heartbreak, but he couldn’t any longer. If Aziraphale wanted him to be some meaningless rebound sex, so be it. He’d be anything Aziraphale wanted him to be, if that meant that he could finally give into him the way he craved to, painfully and mindlessly, drinking him up until the source was as dry as bone. Even heartbreak was better than that hopeless, endless hunger.

He licked his lips and nodded, slowly, air rushing into his lungs in a long, painful breath.

Aziraphale’s eyes looked as huge as satellite moons.

“Good,” he whispered, before grabbing the lapels of Crowley’s jacket and slamming their body together, hard, head up tilted up and lips slotting against Crowley’s.

The kiss sparked something underneath Crowley’s skin, something dark and starving and alive. He felt it stir in his very core, reaching into his blood, spreading into every part of him, from the tips of his fingers to the tips of his toes, tingly and fluttering like a caged bird. He pressed back against Aziraphale, grasping his hips in hands like claws and swiping his tongue against open lips, pushing inside. Aziraphale groaned into the touch, sucking on Crowley’s tongue, licking into his mouth. Every swipe felt like a wave, sizzling along his nerve endings, burning everything it touched. It made scorched ground for everyone that was to come after, Crowley knew, because there was a proprietary, thorough quality in the way Aziraphale kissed, tongue stroking against his own slowly, deliberately, flicking at his teeth, before turning the kiss gentle, shallow, lips moulding against Crowley’s in a gentle press before pushing inside again. It felt like the tide, an inexorable flow of highs and lows, and Crowley was swept completely under.

The kisses seemed to last forever, a spring of them, raining on Crowley’s mouth like an April shower. Aziraphale would suck ever so slightly on Crowley’s lower lip between thorough swipes of his tongue, and it made Crowley’s knees weak, turning the grasp he had on Aziraphale’s hips into a desperate hold. It was the way people kissed in the movies, he thought, vaguely, desperately, as if the kiss was everything there was ever going to be, and it had to be enough to titillate the fantasy and ignite dormant hunger. Aziraphale kissed the way old lovers kissed, deliberate and knowing and wondrously unhurried, not as if kissing was just the necessary gateway into something else. He kissed as though he wanted to devour Crowley whole, and Crowley felt the seismic waves of those kisses ripple into every corner of his shuddering flesh.

“Maddening, gorgeous creature,” Aziraphale growled against his lips, before kissing his cheek, the cut of his jaw, his chin. “Making me wait for so long.”

“Long?!” Crowley choked out in blatant indignation, realising almost as if in a dream that he was hard, and that he was one step away from grinding his erection into Aziraphale in a shameless rut. He started undoing Aziraphale’s jacket, but when he realised that he didn’t really care if the jacket stayed or not, he let it hang open and unbuttoned his white waistcoat instead, tugging the lapels of his shirt out of his trousers. He craved to touch him again, to feel Aziraphale’s lovely flesh against the palms of his hands, and suddenly Crowley was pawing at him, trying to get underneath the starched shirt, to get to his naked skin.

“I wanted to take you home the moment I saw you,” Aziraphale murmured, pressing soft kisses against his neck. Crowley felt every touch like the toll of a bell, deep and low and quivering, and gasped as his hands finally grasped warm, giving flesh. “I didn’t think you felt the same, until... well. Recently enough.”

“You didn’t?!” Crowley found the strength to scoff, even as Aziraphale sucked gently on his pulse, his deft fingers unbuttoning Crowley’s jacket and unfastening his tie. “I practically _told_ you, that evening at the sushi bar!”

“It was a Japanese restaurant, not a sushi bar,” Aziraphale corrected him, answering a question Crowley hadn’t even known to ask, which was whether Aziraphale could be pedantic even with a hard-on. Turned out he could, as he pressed his hips against Crowley slowly, deliberately, threatening to make Crowley’s knees buckle. “And that hardly counts. You were intoxicated.”

“I was _tipsy_ at best, of course it counts!” Crowley protested, only to end his sentence with a low groan as Aziraphale purposely ground his cock against Crowley’s in a deep, steady drag. Crowley could feel how hard Aziraphale was, how hungry, how wondrously hot, even if his face was pressed against the crook of Crowley’s neck and their body were still inconveniently separated by several layers of clothing.

Aziraphale hummed, working Crowley’s shirt open. Crowley shuddered from head to toes at the brush of Aziraphale’s stocky hands across the shuddering plane of his naked belly. He’d been right all along, he thought, a bit hazily. Aziraphale’s hands did feel lovely on him.

“My beautiful boy. So eager for me.”

Of everything Crowley would’ve never expected from Aziraphale, dirty talk had been at the top of the list. He’d been obviously mistaken. He groaned again, deep and shuddering, as Aziraphale licked his neck from throat to chin and nipped at the jut of his jaw. Crowley was so busy appreciating Aziraphale’s devilish tongue that he realised they’d been actually moving only as they got a scant handful of steps away from the couch.

He liked where that was going, he decided. He liked it very much.

“Precious, lovely thing,” Aziraphale murmured, tugging him inexorably forward (and later on Crowley would marvel at how deftly he’d avoided the lurking piles of books littering the path). “What is it that you like? You like to be roughed up a little? You like to be used? Or you’d rather be handled carefully, all splayed out as I find out for myself what makes you tick, makes you hard?”

Crowley let out something a little too close to a shuddering whine for comfort, but he found that he couldn’t stop, could barely breathe. Somehow, he was discovering with no little amount of astonishment, having Aziraphale whispering polite filth into his skin brought entirely different results than strangers grunting how much they wanted his cock into the pillow.

“You like this? Hearing me talk?” Aziraphale asked, pulling away from Crowley’s neck only to frame his cheeks between warm palms and stare at his face with the softest smile Crowley had ever seen. He had flushed cheeks and eyes so bright they were almost twinkling in the dim lights, and his lips looked red and tender, raw from kisses.

He was so beautiful it broke Crowley’s heart.

“Yes,” Crowley admitted, voice scratchy as though it hadn’t been used for a very long time. He would’ve felt embarrassed about it, about how viscerally he was answering to a handful of kisses and a few tantalising whispers, but he was discovering that he didn’t really care. He closed his eyes when Aziraphale kissed him again, using the hands still cradling Crowley’s cheeks to tilt his head the way he wanted, and he let himself be touched, be _handled_. Maybe Aziraphale was onto something there, after all.

“My beautiful darling,” Aziraphale whispered against his lips, pulling a shudder out of Crowley’s very blood, sending it trickling down his spine. It was so much, more than Crowley had ever been given, and yet, Crowley hungered. The more he had, the more he needed, and he couldn’t stop, couldn’t clear his head enough to remember that he was being greedy, he was being clingy, and soon Aziraphale would realise it and pull away, because Crowley needed too much, more than anyone was willing to give. Every voice in his head was muted, and only ravenous hunger remained.

Then Aziraphale’s hands disappeared from his cheeks, and Crowley opened eyes that he didn’t remember to have closed to the sight of Aziraphale sitting down on the couch, spreading his legs to make space for Crowley between them. It hit Crowley like a blow, hard and jagged, and he could do nothing but let himself be dragged forward, as Aziraphale grasped his hips and arranged him the way he wanted. The feeling of Aziraphale’s soft lips on his belly punched a low gasp from his throat, and Crowley reflexively cupped Aziraphale’s skull in one hand, planting the other on Aziraphale’s shoulder for balance. Aziraphale’s eyes were dark and full of mischief as he looked up, teeth pulling on the wrinkled skin of Crowley’s bellybutton. Crowley let out something embarrassing close to a keen, fingers reflexively burying in Aziraphale’s blond curls, sending Crowley’s brain a looping feedback of how wondrously soft they felt against the sensitive pads, and thick at the same time, a bit unyielding, like cotton, fighting the pressure. It was a strange juxtaposition, and Crowley distractedly allowed his fingers to explore that odd texture, so different from his own hair, his entire attention focused on the feeling of Aziraphale sucking kisses into his skin while slowly but surely unbuckling his belt and unbuttoning his trousers.

The moment felt electric, and yet oddly intimate, as Aziraphale pressed his forehead against Crowley’s belly and took a deep, shuddering breath. His hands were skimming up and down Crowley’s legs, a strangely soothing gesture, as though Crowley was a spooked horse. Crowley caressed his nape, threading his fingers through the thick curls, until the pressure grew too heavy, the need to touch Aziraphale, to kiss him again, too strong. He pulled at his curls, trying to be gentle, but he didn’t relent until Aziraphale glanced up again. His eyes looked huge, but there was a soft quality to the way he was looking at Crowley that had no right to be there, not when Aziraphale’s face was mere inches away from his straining cock. It looked lurid against the giving texture of his pressed trousers, even filthier against Aziraphale’s round face and tender eyes. It hit Crowley low and deep, like a punch, making him double over and slam his lips against Aziraphale’s.

Aziraphale hummed into the kiss, as though he’d expected it, while Crowley shuddered at the proprietary swipe of his tongue. It was a cramped, uncomfortable position, but Crowley couldn’t stop cradling Aziraphale’s face in his hands and chasing the taste of his mouth as much as he couldn’t stop the thundering beating of his heart. He groaned into the kiss, and realised belatedly that Aziraphale was pulling at his hips, trying to get him in his lap.

“Come here, come here, you gorgeous thing,” Aziraphale groaned against his mouth, tugging at him until Crowley was straddling his thighs. Crowley pushed up on his knees when Aziraphale urged him to, and groaned against his cheek when he felt those wonderful hands yank down his open trousers and his tight boxer in one go, freeing his cock.

“There you are,” Aziraphale cooed, looking down to peer at his prick, as Crowley panted into his hair. “You are so beautiful, my dear,” Aziraphale whispered, his hand curling around the girth of Crowley’s flesh, testing how it felt in his palm. The touch sent a shocking spike of pleasure up Crowley’s spine, and he keened, high and shuddering, as Aziraphale stroked him excruciatingly slowly from root to tip. “And so _sensitive_.”

“Aziraphale, ngh, angel, please,” Crowley babbled, his shaking hands skimming over Aziraphale’s shoulders, down his clothed chest, fumbling with his belt. “Let me, please, I need- I need. _Please_.”

“Greedy boy,” Aziraphale whispered, low and amused in a way that turned a potential reproach into honey dripping onto Crowley’s skin. He didn’t sound put upon in the slightest. He sounded _delighted_. “You already had your fill. Won’t you let me have mine?”

Crowley was past words by now, past anything that wasn’t mindless pleading. He licked his lips, nosing at Aziraphale’s curls, hopeless to stop his hips from snapping forward to meet Aziraphale’s agonisingly slow strokes.

“_Please_.”

Aziraphale chuckled against his collar bone, a huff of breath that made Crowley’s skin ripple with a shudder. The only sounds Crowley could hear were the wild thudding of his own heart and their gasping breaths, the steady humming of the city muted around them. He could feel sweat beading on his skin, drenching his formal shirt, gathering on his nape.

“How can I refuse, when you ask so sweetly?” Aziraphale hummed, licking the hollow of his throat. He squeezed the head of Crowley’s cock in a way that made him cry out, a pitiful, shuddering sound, but then he was back at pawing at Aziraphale’s belt, and eventually managed to open his trousers. Aziraphale had to let go of Crowley’s cock to help Crowley lower his pants, but eventually his own erection was free, hard and red and so very lovely, straining from the soft cloud of white curls. Aziraphale groaned against his throat when Crowley took hold of him, and then he was grasping Crowley’s arse, stocky fingers digging deliciously into the scant meat of it.

“You feel so wonderful, my dear,” Aziraphale sighed, teeth scraping against Crowley’s neck. His cock was heavy and wonderful in Crowley’s hand, just like the first time, hard and deliciously thick. It wasn’t the best position to deliver a stellar handjob, his hand bumping against his own belly or Aziraphale’s at every stroke in the cramped space between their bodies, but Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind.

Aziraphale groaned into his skin when Crowley started to stroke him in earnest, hands kneading Crowley’s arse, swiping lower to grab the fleshier parts where his buttocks met his thighs. It was a bit tight down there, with the way Crowley’s lowered trousers were pulled taut around his spread legs, but Aziraphale wouldn’t let himself be deterred, and managed to fit his fingers between the fabric and Crowley’s flesh to scrape his nails against the back of his thighs.

He was already weeping in Crowley’s fist, when he stopped Crowley with a hand on his wrist.

“That’s enough, my darling,” Aziraphale said, looking up at Crowley with an incongruously soft smile on his lips.

Crowley felt the endearment trickle down his spine like liquid fine, licking at his nerve endings. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against Aziraphale’s, breathing with him in the narrow space between their mouths. He felt light-headed, as though he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs, even if he was panting against Aziraphale’s lips.

He didn’t protest when Aziraphale took hold of both his wrists, allowing him to guide Crowley’s arms around his neck.

“I want to feel you close,” Aziraphale whispered, low and impossibly tender. His words sank like needles in Crowley’s skin, making it tingle, painful and alive. Crowley keened, because he couldn’t remember the last time someone had treated him so gently, so carefully, and tightened his grip around Aziraphale’s neck, hiding his face into the crook of his own elbow. They were so close, now. He could feel the heat of Aziraphale’s cheek against his own, his breath splashing shallow and damp against Crowley’s neck, making him shiver. His ridiculous bowtie was tickling the hollow of Crowley’s throat, feather-like, and he could feel the brush of Aziraphale’s hard cock against his own at every awkward shift of his hips.

He was so caught up in the all-encompassing feeling of Aziraphale, pressed so close to him that it felt almost as if he was everywhere, that he realised that Aziraphale had been carefully rearranging them only when he felt his fist close around both their cocks. Crowley groaned at the sensation, deep and quivering, and heard Aziraphale’s echoing gasp as he started stroking them together. His stocky hand wasn’t quite enough to circle them both at the same time, but Crowley was already wound up so tight, and the friction was so wonderful, that coming like that wasn’t such an impossibility. He was vaguely aware of his hips moving, snapping forward to fuck his cock in Aziraphale’s grasp, groaning when he felt the flared rim of Aziraphale’s cockhead catch on his slit.

“Like that, darling,” Aziraphale cooed, pointed and breathless, groaning into Crowley’s hair. His other hand was clutching Crowley’s arse for dear life, finger sunk into wiry flesh hard enough to hurt, hard enough to _bruise_. Crowley wondered vaguely if he would find finger-shaped marks on his arse the following day, and he keened at the thought, hips fucking harder into the welcoming circle of Aziraphale’s hand. “My gorgeous darling. Is this enough for you? Do you need more?”

Aziraphale’s voice was dripping honey, low and so very sweet, and yet there was something else lurking, something dark and a little wicked. Crowley realised with a shudder that there was an obvious eroticism underlining the cloying tenderness, a pointed sort of attention. It was getting Aziraphale off, talking to him like that. It was an odd sort of revelation, startling in a way, and almost inevitable in another. It had never happened to Crowley before, with all the partners he’d had, but then again, none of them had been Aziraphale. And that was such an _Aziraphale_ sort of thing that it seemed only natural, that erotic undercurrent of loving attentiveness. It was much more startling the realisation that _Crowley_ was getting off on it, too.

He keened, hips snapping harder, faster, as he felt pleasure pooling in his belly, multiplying in spikes like overlying waves. Aziraphale’s echoing groan pressed into his skin, as his hand worked faster, trying to topple them over. Everything was wet and stiflingly warm between them, sweat and precome making for a slippery slide, and Crowley felt almost as if he was melting inside his own skin.

“_Aziraphale_,” he whined, shuddering and breathless and blatantly, painfully _needy_. He cringed at the rawness of it, impossible to hide, hips stuttering in shame, but Aziraphale groaned so loud against his cheek that his ear almost rang with it, with the vibrating bass of his voice, and then Aziraphale was coming between them, wet and sticky and shuddering. Crowley felt him spasm under his body, and tightened his grasp, holding him together as Aziraphale’s orgasm crested and rippled in hot spurts against Crowley’s naked belly. It left Crowley oversensitive and wound up as tight as a spring, all shivering muscles and jagged need. He could feel Aziraphale’s spent trickling down his belly, wetting the wispy hairs framing his straining cock. Aziraphale was shuddering against him, his hand lax between their bodies.

“Darling,” Aziraphale gasped, still coming down from his high, “I’m sorry, please, let me...”

But Crowley batted away the hand that Aziraphale was clumsily trying to wrap around his cock, and pushed down on him instead, his entire body pressed so hard against Aziraphale that he could feel Aziraphale’s clothes dig into every inch of exposed skin. He wanted to feel him so close he could sink into him, be devoured until he disappeared. He thrust hard, feeling the grating texture of Aziraphale’s shirt scrape against his oversensitive cock, and reached down with one hand to tug it out of the way. And then, it was just bare skin. Crowley wound his arms around Aziraphale’s neck so tight it hurt them both, but he didn’t stop, he grabbed him with all the strength in his wiry arms and fucked Aziraphale’s round belly in brutal thrusts, everything slick and hot and gloriously, painfully messy between them.

“_Yes_, my dear, my precious darling, take what you need,” Aziraphale hissed into his ear, feeding his frenzy. Crowley’s hips were snapping by now, pleasure rising like the tide, orgasm lurking just out of reach. And then Aziraphale’s hands were back on his arse, heavy and proprietary, urging him to go faster, harder, to fuck Aziraphale’s flesh to completion, and Crowley was done for. He came with a desperate whine, face hidden in the crook of his elbow, toes curling, hips snapping, Aziraphale’s soft cheek pressed against his own. He came all over Aziraphale’s belly and his own, all over their clothes, his spent mixing with Aziraphale’s. He kept rubbing his flagging cock against Aziraphale’s skin well into oversensitivity, when it wasn’t pleasurable anymore, just painful, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t slow down. He realised that he was keening only when he felt Aziraphale’s hands brush gently his arms, a shattered, broken sound.

“Sssh, my dear boy,” Aziraphale soothed him, stroking his arms ever so gently, feather-like and warm. He moved to his shoulders, his flanks, and Crowley felt his hips slow down in their frantic snapping, felt his muscles unclench, and finally, _finally_, crumbled into a boneless mass on top of Aziraphale, heart drumming wildly in his chest, panting like he’d just run a marathon. “I’ve got you. Relax. You’re all right. Everything is well.”

Crowley let out a sound that was almost a _sob_, to his supreme horror, but Aziraphale didn’t seem fazed in the slightest. He stroked Crowley’s back, gentle and soothing, whispering calming nothings into his ear.

Crowley had no idea how long they stayed like that. Surely past discomfort. He wasn’t really aware of their mixed come cooling between them, the uncomfortable clothes scratching against his skin. He was only aware of Aziraphale’s tender touch, the gentle ebbing of his voice. He had no idea what Aziraphale was actually saying, but it didn’t matter–the rumbling sound was the only thing that reached him, the closeness, the warmth of his skin. The delicious gentleness of his touch.

Crowley kept his eyes closed, and allowed himself the almost unbearable luxury of being comforted.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely people! <3  
I’ll probably reach the bottom of this well soon enough, but until then, I’ll try to keep these updates as frequent as possible. Your wonderful response to the last chapter had me in tears, and I just couldn’t sit on these 11k words any longer. So here they are. I truly hope you’ll enjoy the chapter.  
That said, another shout out to [uponwhatgrounds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uponwhatgrounds/pseuds/uponwhatgrounds) for being a lovely human being and gifting me with yet another precious [piece of art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23296285). Your kindness is astonishing <3

“Will you stay the night, my dear?”

The words, spoken so softly that Crowley had been able to hear them only because they’d been poured directly into his ear, stirred him back to consciousness. He hummed under his breath, trying to coordinate the clenching and unclenching of his heavy muscles enough to at least lift his head from the warm, dark nest it’d made for itself in the crook of his own elbow. Crowley felt loose in a way he hadn’t experienced in so long it felt like decades, and his body protested loudly against that uncalled-for abuse. He wanted nothing more than to stay there until his own cells decayed, because Aziraphale’s embrace was worth everything, even the discomfort. And the crouch _was_ starting to become uncomfortable, between the lowered trousers digging into his upper thighs, the open shirt and the cool, sticky come glued to his skin. But still. The gentle strokes of Aziraphale’s stocky hands down his back, the brushing of his round belly against his own at every breath. The soft cheek pressed against his. The silky honey of his voice. It was worth everything and more.

It took Crowley an incalculable amount of willpower to loosen a little the tight grasp he had on Aziraphale’s neck, and lift his weary head enough to look down at him. Aziraphale’s eyes were wide and gentle in a way that shattered Crowley’s heart, just a little. Aziraphale pressed their lips together into a slow kiss, then another, little close-mouthed lingering pecks that echoed in the silence like bangs. And yet, as the wondrous quiet started to fade, Crowley was able to make out the muted rumbling of traffic outside the closed window, the steady buzz of the city.

Crowley had lost count of how many kisses they’d shared, when Aziraphale chuckled lowly against his lips. He’d brought up his hand to cradle Crowley’s skull, and Crowley shuddered as clever fingers gently scratched his scalp.

“Let’s go to bed, my dear boy,” Aziraphale murmured, kissing the corner of Crowley’s mouth. “We’ll be more comfortable there.”

Crowley toyed for a moment with the notion, caught a bit unaware by the punch of pure _want_ that came attached to it. He’d slept already in Aziraphale’s bed, but not like that. Not with the thrilling weight of intimacy trickling into every shared touch. He wondered what it’d be like. He wondered, with a stab of shuddering hunger, if Aziraphale would stay close enough for his luscious scent to sink into Crowley’s parched skin.

Unfortunately, he didn’t have the luxury to investigate the issue close and proper that same night. He had to go to work the day after, and had no clean clothes to wear. It was a very trivial, very annoying problem, but a problem nonetheless. He could go home, gather some supplies and drive back, but he lived far enough into the woods that it would take him a couple of hours at least to get everything sorted. He couldn’t trample into Aziraphale’s house well past midnight. And he had his plants to water, on top of that. He’d abandoned them for almost three days, and God almighty alone knew what sort of mischief they’d been up to in his absence. A little wilting here, a bit of drooping there. Perhaps, if they’d felt rebellious enough, even a leaf spot.

He pressed his forehead against Aziraphale’s with a deep, heartfelt sigh.

“No can do, angel,” he answered, trying his best to keep his voice level instead of allowing the embarrassing whine lurking into his throat to come out unchecked. “I have work tomorrow. I need to go home. I didn’t exactly prepare for... _this_.”

Whatever _that_ was. It was still a bit too soon to give it a label, and it was annoying to discover that, for once in his life, Crowley really wanted to.

(Whom was he even trying to convince, there? He’d wanted that, a proper relationship, for quite some time now. He could lie to himself as much as he wanted, when one-night stands failed to call him back or casual hook-ups blabbered about not being ready for anything exclusive, but the ice was getting way too thin to be trodden upon without shattering.)

His heart did a strange fluttering skip when Aziraphale’s face fell, showing disappointment in that sort of honest, blatant way that Crowley had actively tried to avoid as long as he could remember.

“Oh. I see.” Crowley’s stomach dropped at the displeased note in that warm voice, but then Aziraphale was smiling again, stroking Crowley’s face with a touch so tender that Crowley almost pulled away in desperate instinct. “I’m sorry, my dear. I’m being selfish. You’ve been away from home for days. I should let you go, instead of trying to keep you all to myself.”

Crowley didn’t exactly _mind_ Aziraphale’s attempts at keeping Crowley_ all to himself_, as Aziraphale had put it, but he wasn’t sure how to say that out loud without sounding like a desperate git. So he turned his head and kissed the palm of Aziraphale’s hand instead, getting a deep sigh for his trouble. Then he peeled himself off the couch and struggled on his feet, realising belatedly that he was covered in come, and every muscle in his body ached in the most delicious way.

Aziraphale didn’t even pretend not to ogle, as he looked at him up and down with sharp eyes.

“You’re filthy,” he said, with obvious delight.

Crowley laughed, as he tucked himself back into his pants and buttoned up his trousers. There was something almost giddy brewing under his skin, and yet he felt at ease, relaxed in a way he hadn’t felt in way too long.

“So are you.”

Aziraphale looked down at his exposed belly. Crowley had tugged his shirt up to his armpits, and congealed come streaked the soft skin, already flaking in places. His prick was resting on his bollocks, shorter now but still thick, even soft. It spiked something luscious and visceral in Crowley. He suddenly wished to have the time to kneel between those thighs and suck on Aziraphale’s cock until it was hard again, stretching his mouth impossibly, painfully wide.

He was so caught up in his fantasy that he nearly jumped out of his skin at Aziraphale’s low, almost purring voice.

“Something on your mind, dear?”

Crowley blinked, looking away. He usually wasn’t shy about sharing sexual fantasies, but it felt different with Aziraphale. It felt unbearably personal, and the intimacy of it caught him unaware. A wave of heat rushed to his face, which Crowley tried to push back with something close to mortified horror.

“What do you think?” he grumbled back, looking for something to clean himself up with. Aziraphale plucked a couple of napkins from a dispenser he’d found somewhere in the chaos cluttering the room and handed him the box. He didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. The sharp smirk on his face was answer enough.

They cleaned themselves up in silence, after that short exchange. Crowley tried to keep his eyes to himself, but it was difficult not to steal at least a peek, as Aziraphale tucked his soft cock into his pants and fixed his clothes. There was a small bin hidden under the cluttered desk, but Crowley would’ve stood there like a twit with his dirty napkins in hand if Aziraphale hadn’t pointed it at him with a chuckle. Crowley gave up on the pretences (and the shirt he was trying with uneven results to button up right) and bent to steal another kiss, which Aziraphale returned with all-too-obvious delight.

“You’re making it incredibly difficult for me to let you go,” Aziraphale huffed, getting up on his feet and batting Crowley’s hands away from his own rioting shirt. Crowley had paired up all the eyelets with the wrong buttons, and Aziraphale patiently undid all his work, before buttoning up the shirt right. Then he reached up for his tie, but Crowley waved him away with a laugh.

“My shirt is wrinkled beyond saving and I’m covered in come, I think my tie is a fashion statement that can be foregone for now.”

Aziraphale didn’t seem particularly pleased with that statement, but he took a step back nevertheless. There was colour on his cheeks, but he looked relaxed in a way that spoke of post-orgasmic bliss still swirling in his bloodstream.

“Can I at least offer you a glass of water before you go?” Aziraphale asked, heading to what Crowley guessed was the kitchen without waiting for an answer. “That was some rather... strenuous activity we had.”

“So nice of you to make sure I stay hydrated,” Crowley chuckled, despite the odd spike of warmth fizzling for a moment down his spine.

Aziraphale came back with two large glasses, and pushed one of them in Crowley’s hand without compliments.

“Well, someone should,” he grumbled, eyeing him a bit suspiciously as Crowley took a large gulp. “Slowly, my dear. Slowly.”

Crowley laughed again, as Aziraphale’s ears turned pink and he took a slightly chagrined look at his own tone. Crowley asked directions to the bathroom, and was led between piles of dusty books into the only room he’d seen so far with a visible floor. There were books there too, of course, but Aziraphale seemed to consider the danger of mould a serious enough threat to limit their sprawling growth. Crowley was honestly surprised to find the ancient claw-footed tub empty.

He finished his glass on his way out, and then he was putting on his coat, heading for the door. He wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about leaving, which he tried to hide at the best of his abilities, but then again, neither seemed Aziraphale.

“Well, then. Goodnight, angel. I’ll see you soon,” Crowley said, a bit awkwardly. It was always so difficult to ask to see someone again. When would be too soon, and when too late? He’d never learnt the difference. Too little experience on the subject at hand.

(And what if that was it, what if Aziraphale did not _want_ to see him again? What if he’d never meant for that little bit of fun on the side to last?)

Aziraphale was peering at his face with something hovering between uncertainty and dejection.

“Right. Soon.” A beat, and then: “I’m busy tomorrow, but I have a late shift on Tuesday. Perhaps we could have lunch together, if you have the time.”

Aziraphale’s voice had a strained, almost guarded quality to it, as though he wasn’t too sure his invitation wouldn’t be mercilessly thrown back into his face. It made for a jarring comeback to their weekend in the country, that sudden, fluttering vulnerability, clawing at Crowley’s heart.

That wouldn’t do at all.

Crowley cradled Aziraphale’s cheek in the palm of his hand and bent to press a kiss to his lips, soft and lingering.

(Perhaps that was not the end, after all. Not yet.)

“Lunch sounds good. You know a place, right?”

Aziraphale’s pleased little smirk was brighter than anything, blinding like the sun.

“Of course I do, my dear.”

Crowley was smiling all the way back home.

* * *

It hadn’t been more than a weekend, and yet to Crowley it seemed like he’d been away years on end, when he set foot into the office on Monday morning. Everything felt a little different, a little off, as though something had shifted so very slightly out of axes while he was enduring hell in the countryside, and now he was stuck behind the looking glass.

So much had changed in such a short time, Crowley mused, as he took his place behind his computer screen. So much, and yet everything was exactly how he’d left it, the same pens in the same places, the same rubbish he always forgot to throw away, old tickets and old papers and old drafts of articles long gone to print. Old, old, old. Everything was old and bleak and leaking in that place, and for the first time Crowley realised that while everything on the desk was technically his, there was nothing there that really identified that sorry place as belonging to Anthony Crowley in any way. No personal memento, no memory. Just his name typed or scratched on wrinkled, ruined paper.

He scraped a hand over his face. He’d been too tired the night before to take proper care of things, and he’d woken up that morning to a pile of dirty clothes precariously thrown upon his leather travel bag and a reddish hickey darkening the juncture between his neck and his shoulder. He’d squinted at the mirror until he’d made out a fading set of light bruises dotting the scant meat of his arse, and had washed the stink of sweat and sex from his skin while lazily debating whether his half-hearted hard-on needed to be dealt with or simply let be. He’d eventually decided to let his cock lose interest on its own, and had donned a tie to go to the office for the first time in years. He’d never really cared if people saw a hickey or two, but the bruise left by Aziraphale’s teeth felt too personal to be shared, and covering it up with the starched collar of a formal shirt seemed an idea as good as any. There was at least one person in that place who would connect the dots with uncomfortable ease, and Crowley wasn’t sure he was all right with that. Anathema didn’t need to know exactly what was going on between him and Aziraphale, whatever her opinion on the matter was.

Not that Crowley himself had a much clearer idea about what was in fact going on between them, which was if anything another very good reason Anathema needed to be kept as far away from that mess as possible. At least until Crowley figured some stuff out. Such as, for example, _whatever the hell_ was that thing he seemed to have for Aziraphale’s voice, which was getting embarrassingly out of hand.

Crowley understood sex, the physicality of it, the pull and push of pleasure. But words had never held that much power over him, and he didn’t rightly know what to make of that.

_My beautiful boy, my dear, my precious darling. _That wasn’t something you heard from a casual partner, or even from someone you were engaged in a short-term relationship with. That was something you said to someone you meant to keep. Was that what Crowley wanted? What he craved?

_Greedy boy._

Crowley could feel his ears burn, and something liquid, something _hot_, pool in his belly.

That, he decided, was the moment to get a cup of coffee. Before any other _inspired_ musing made getting up on his feet without embarrassing himself in front of the entire office close to impossible.

He was brewing a fresh pot of coffee when Anathema, as if summoned by the aroma of roasted beans, showed up in the kitchenette in yet another wave of loose lace and thick brown hair. She was wearing her round horn-rimmed glasses, an insult to any form of style if Crowley had ever seen one, but she managed to make them work in a way that Crowley had always found nothing short of mysterious. The glasses made her eyes look huge, and even more pointedly inquisitive than normal. Crowley would’ve bet good money on Anathema knowing that simple fact of life very well, and using it to her own advantage.

“Hello, Crowley,” she purred, with a frankly terrifying smile on her pretty face. “Got here just in time for a fresh cup of coffee, I see.”

“Good morning to you too,” Crowley answered, trying and failing to sound perfectly unfazed. Anathema walked past him to wash her ugly kraken mug at the sink, and threw him a smirk as she settled back against the counter.

Crowley pretended to be extremely fascinated by the boiling water, and refused to look at her in the eye. Not that it was going to be enough to deter Anathema in any way, but still.

“So,” she predictably said, when she saw that staring Crowley down wasn’t bringing any results, “how was Sussex?”

Crowley scoffed.

“It’s _Sussex_. Green. Empty. Boring.”

“You know what I’m asking.”

“Aziraphale’s family didn’t try to hunt me down and mount my head over the fireplace, if that’s what you want to know,” Crowley grinned, all sharp humour and sharper teeth.

(Though they had come very close, if Crowley had to be completely honest. Good thing he didn’t.)

Anathema rolled her eyes.

“Yes, wonderful. I can see that. How was the wedding?”

“Not very green and not very empty, but still boring.”

“Of course you’d say that, you uncultured swine,” Anathema grumbled. “How was Aziraphale’s _family_? As terrible as I thought?”

Crowley blinked at her.

“You have no idea.”

“Hmm.” The brewer had finally stopped sputtering between them. Anathema picked the pot and poured some coffee to the both of them. “Care to elaborate?”

Crowley thought it over for a moment, as he inhaled the rich smell of coffee. He knew he’d need to give Anathema _something_, sooner or later, if he wanted to get rid of her. It was better to throw Aziraphale’s family under the bus than sharing _other_ sorts of things. Besides, he knew how to talk without really giving anything away.

“Bunch of tossers, as you said. They do find Aziraphale’s job demeaning, and they weren’t shy about letting him know.”

He would try to protect Aziraphale the best he could, but that was nothing that Anathema hadn’t told Crowley herself. Confirming her suppositions was better than giving her fresh fodder for brand new speculations.

“Assholes,” Anathema scoffed, tossing a thick strand of dark hair behind her shoulder in a gesture of calculated distaste. “I know the type. Let me guess, big jobs and big paychecks and everyone else is a peasant?”

Crowley chuckled, taking a sip at his coffee. It was dark and strong, if not exactly delicious, which was everything Crowley needed. He couldn’t handle people in the morning without a coffee, even less Anathema and her unnecessarily observant eyes.

“You do know the type.”

“Everyone knows the type, aside from the people who _are_ the type,” Anathema answered, wrinkling her nose. “Poor Aziraphale. I’m glad you were there with him. Did you kick their asses?”

“I doubt Aziraphale would’ve approved.”

“Hmm,” Anathema grumbled. “Probably not. But still.”

She flashed a sharp smirk at him, and Crowley openly laughed this time. He couldn’t blame her. He would’ve gladly punched Gabriel in the face if that had been on the cards, but alas, Aziraphale did seem to be fond of his horrible family.

Crowley was still busy relaxing in that false sense of security when Anathema pounced. Silly him. He should’ve known better. He found himself floundering, instead, when a nineteen-year-old intern threw at him, casual as you please:

“So, how are things between you and Aziraphale?”

For lack of anything better to do, Crowley took a long sip at his coffee, almost choking on the strong blend.

_You idiot. You knew she was going to get to that, sooner or later._

“We managed not to kill each other,” he answered eventually, trying his very best to act as if he hadn’t admitted to a mortifying schoolboy crush not one week before. He wasn’t really sure how well he managed, but try he did. “It was alright.”

“Alright, you say.” Anathema’s eyes were huge and piercing and more ominous than a storm of crows in a Hitchcock movie. “You got laid, didn’t you.”

Crowley didn’t spray the entire kitchen in coffee, but it was a close call.

“What?!” he protested, holding desperately onto whatever scrap of cool he managed to get his hands on. “That’s none of your business. And it’s ridiculous, you can’t tell!”

Anathema had the nerve of scoff, actually _scoff_ at him.

“Of course I can’t tell, we’re not in a crappy sitcom. All _that_, however,” she said, waving a hand in his general direction, “well, that was a dead giveaway.”

“I have no idea what you’re on about.”

“_Right_,” Anathema snorted, not even trying to pretend she wasn’t laughing at him and his pathetic attempts at keeping some measure of dignity. As always the lionhearted man, Crowley decided that a brave retreat was the way to go, but Anathema read into his intentions with admirable promptness and literally put herself between him and the doorway. “Oh, no, you’re not going anywhere until you give me _something_.”

“Why don’t you go ask Aziraphale?” Crowley grumbled, biting his tongue before something foolish, like _‘so that he’ll have another go at telling you how strictly friendly we are’_, could come out of his mouth. He really needed to learn to let go, once in a while. There was stuff that would cut his skin in ribbons just by coming too close, and yet he clutched at it even if his bleeding fingers were carved to the bone.

“As if _he_ would ever tell me anything, now that the two of you are actually seeing each other,” Anathema scoffed. “I had some wriggle room before, when he wasn’t sure, but now I’d have more luck trying to squeeze water out of a stone.”

Crowley chuckled at that, he couldn’t help it. Old wounds would take a while to stop bleeding, no matter how embarrassingly childish they were, but Anathema’s words helped a little to soothe the sting.

“Alright, fine,” he sighed. “We are... considering, I think.”

“You _think_,” Anathema said, staring him down with a fearful glare. “You still haven’t talked to him, have you.”

“We wanted to,” Crowley rushed to defend himself, only half aware of what was coming out of his mouth. “We got... distracted.”

Anathema’s answering groan was so loud Crowley could only hope it hadn’t carried all the way to Beelzebub’s office, but he doubted he was so lucky.

“Oh, Crowley. _First_ you _talk_, _then_ you have _sex_. It’s not rocket science.”

“Yes, well, if you’re quite finished...”

“You’re a grown man! How can you not know?”

Anathema had been so caught up in her own harangue to fail to notice she’d moved just enough to leave some space between herself and the door. Crowley, who had no patience or self-respect left, took advantage of that to slip out of the kitchen.

“Because I’m a _man_,” he chirped back, cradling his precious cup of coffee to his chest as he escaped more or less unscathed the dragon den. “Didn’t Simone de Beauvoir say something along those lines, too?”

He was walking away so fast he didn’t quite catch her answer, but he sagely decided he could do without, all in all.

* * *

Crowley was wearing yet another button up and a tie, on Tuesday. He’d toyed with the idea of brazenly showing Aziraphale the bruise he’d left Crowley and tease him a little with it, but everything felt still too new and fresh to go poking about when he didn’t know where the traps lay. So, he’d decided to behave and cover the bruise with the starched collar of a black shirt, fashionably tucked into the waistband of his skin-tight black jeans, and a red tie. He spent almost twenty minutes fixing his hair in the bathroom before leaving for his break, but if Anathema noticed (and she did, she even pumped her fist into the air on his way out), Crowley most definitely didn’t know (he most definitely did).

It was by utter chance that he was early again for their meeting (_date_), and it had nothing to do with the way Aziraphale’s eyes softened in warm approval at seeing him already standing in front of the weathered signboard of _Heavenly Delights_. Aziraphale had decided for yet another full breakfast for lunch, and Crowley didn’t really care enough to discuss his choice. If it made Aziraphale happy, Crowley was more than all right with it.

(How lovely for him.)

Seeing Aziraphale again felt like a blow to the guts. Crowley thought that he should’ve got used to it by now, it was beyond ridiculous, and yet having touched him so intimately, having kissed him, seemed akin to having thrown gasoline onto a fire. All of a sudden, he wanted nothing more than to grab Aziraphale by his stupid tartan bowtie and drag him to his cluttered flat, the need to touch raw and visceral. Their hurried handjobs felt abruptly nothing more than a sprinkle on scorched ground, and as Aziraphale came close enough to hold, Crowley realised with a spike of brutal need that he hadn’t seen Aziraphale naked still, hadn’t touched his skin nearly enough to quench his impossible hunger. And the merciless way he craved Aziraphale’s hands on him was impossible to quantify.

“Good morning, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured, hesitating for a long moment before reaching up and stroking Crowley’s cheek, mindful of his glasses.

Crowley leant into the touch like a lazy cat.

“Hello, angel.”

The touch lingered. Then Aziraphale, looking none too pleased, took his hand away with a sigh.

“Well. We don’t have much time, so we’d better get inside and put in an order.”

“As you say, angel,” Crowley acquiesced, following him into the shop, before adding with a snicker: “Good thing that you’re ordering for us both. Saves us a lot of time.”

He got a peeved scoff for his trouble, but neither his little quip nor the chuckle that followed deterred Aziraphale in the slightest from getting a full breakfast for them both and plenty of tea and orange juice. Crowley was smirking to himself as Aziraphale primly set a napkin on his thighs and fiddled with his cutlery.

“You look very dapper today, my dear,” Aziraphale commented, eyeing him rather appreciatively from the other side of the table. Aziraphale had chosen the closest thing to a private boot the shop had to offer, and they were a bit isolated from the rest of the patrons. Crowley couldn’t say he minded.

“Hm. Had to. Couldn’t very well get one my henleys when someone had decided that marking me up was a good idea.”

There was a confused frown on Aziraphale’s face.

“Uh?” he asked, before his gaze zeroed on the hand that Crowley had pressed on the side of his neck and in particular on the thumb he’d dug into the bruise hiding under his clothes. Crowley watched in fascination as a wave of pure heat washed over Aziraphale’s face, from the hollow of his throat to the tips of his ears. “Oh. I see. Er... well. Ah. I... I got carried away, I suppose. I’m sorry, my dear.”

Crowley’s smirk was full of teeth as he pressed harder into the bruise, relishing the sting.

“No apology necessary, angel. You’re more than welcome to mark me up. Maybe not until I’m black and blue, granted,” he added with a laugh, “but I wouldn’t say no to a bit of rough play.”

The blush on Aziraphale’s face turned even darker at that remark, but the man was staring at his glass of orange juice, refusing to look up. Crowley was about to say something to break the tension, when Aziraphale finally spoke.

“You should really, _really_ be more careful about what you say, my dear.” There was a strange twinkle in Aziraphale’s eyes, as he finally glanced up. They made for a strangely calm oasis against the backdrop of his red face. “Someone might take you up on it.”

And didn’t _that_ sound delightful. Crowley was just about to say that if Aziraphale wanted to fuck him into the mattress he was more than welcome to do so, when the waitress came back with their order, effectively disrupting the mood. By the time she was gone, Aziraphale was too concentrated on his breakfast to pay any attention to a bit of flirting on the side, and Crowley wasn’t cruel enough to try and distract him.

The conversation turned to more mundane topics, after that. Aziraphale had a few deliveries to go through and a lot of paperwork that Crowley didn’t really follow, and Crowley moaned a bit about the extra work Beelzebub had him doing to pay off his lost time right up to the moment he realised that Aziraphale had gone all quiet and ashamed at the remarks, and Crowley rushed to reassure him that he didn’t really mind. He took advantage of Aziraphale’s dejected state to pay the bill, though, which earned him a peeved huff, but also seemed to get Aziraphale out of his funk. He’d started fidgeting by the time Crowley pulled up in front of his library.

“Here we are, angel,” Crowley said, a bit awkwardly. He was working up his courage to ask Aziraphale for another meeting (_date_), but Aziraphale spoke first.

“Are you free on Thursday evening, my dear?” he asked, quiet and just as guarded as the time before. “I have an early shift and I thought... well. I thought we could have dinner. I haven’t eaten Moroccan for quite some time, now.”

“Sounds good, angel,” Crowley eagerly replied, feeling a wave of relief washing over him. Why was that so damn difficult, all of a sudden? They’d met just as often before, and they’d never had those sorts of awkward pauses in between. Or maybe they _had_, but they’d never been so loud, so blatant, so...

...so impossible to disguise.

Silly Crowley. Of course. They had no more excuses now. Their last fig leaf had gone down the loo, and they couldn’t pretend anymore that what they were doing held no meaning. Whether they met once per week or every damn day, their decisions betrayed their intentions. Of course it was more difficult. They had nowhere left to hide.

Aziraphale’s face showed the same drowning relief Crowley felt. His smile was so soft and lovely Crowley thought he could very well sink into it.

“Wonderful. I’ll give you the address.”

Crowley tried not to be hopelessly charmed as Aziraphale actually fished for a pen and a tiny notebook into one of the many pockets his clothes rather admiringly hid and jotted down a few lines in precarious balance on his knees, but it was a lost battle.

“Here,” Aziraphale said, tearing off the scribbled corner of the page and shoving it in Crowley’s hand, before putting the notebook and pen away. “Six o’clock? Would that be all right?”

Crowley thought about it for a moment, as he pocketed the crinkled piece of paper.

“Six and a half would be better.”

With the extra hour he was putting daily for Beelzebub until the end of the week, that would be just perfect.

Aziraphale smiled warmly at him, reaching out after a moment of hesitation to press his palm against the hand Crowley had left on the stick.

“Six and a half it is.” A beat, as a harried smile pulled at Aziraphale’s lips. “And I thought... well. I thought you might stay the night. If you wanted.”

Crowley’s heart did something complicated in his chest, like a loud thump. He chided himself for it.

_Get a grip, you old fool. You’ve been out of secondary school long enough._

“Sounds like a plan,” he cheerfully replied, then looked away, incapable of holding the steady gaze of Aziraphale’s blue eyes. He scratched the back of his neck with his free hand. “Yes. I would love to.”

Aziraphale’s voice was low, vaguely uncertain but devastatingly sweet in the hush of the moment.

“Wonderful. I’ll see you on Thursday, my dear.”

Crowley’s heart was thumping wildly in his chest as Aziraphale squeezed his hand one last time, before climbing off the Bentley.

“It’s a date, angel.”

Aziraphale’s smile was a bit too bright to be a smirk, but still way too close for comfort.

“Yes, my dear. It’s a date.”

He closed the door gently before he went, and Crowley was left there to watch him walk away, like the lovesick fool that he was.

A _date_.

Well, then.

* * *

The Moroccan restaurant turned out to be an unassuming hole in the ground under some old house, poorly signalled and hidden behind a steep ramp of stairs that revealed a sumptuously furnished interior, once the heavy glass door was opened. The scent of spices hit Crowley like a wave as he followed Aziraphale inside, between intricate golden arches and thick festoons of heavy silks, but it weakened considerably as they were led to a table farther away from the kitchen. The table was a small, round thing, and they were given plush ottomans to sit on that Crowley (and his bony arse) deeply appreciated.

“Well? What do you think, dear?” Aziraphale nudged him, obviously noticing Crowley’s wide-eyed staring.

Crowley shrugged.

“’s nice. Never eaten Moroccan before.”

“Never?” Aziraphale repeated, with obvious delight. “Oh, this is going to be lovely, my dear. How are we feeling about fish tonight?”

“Meat would be better, I think.”

“They make the best lamb with prunes in London, here. You’re in for a treat.”

Crowley couldn’t help but smile at Aziraphale’s sparkling eyes. He looked barely able to sit still for the excitement.

“Sounds good, angel.”

“Wonderful.”

Aziraphale made to call the waiter, but hesitated mid-gesture. Crowley waved a hand at him.

“Yes, go ahead. You can order for me, too.”

Aziraphale’s smirk was sharper than a blade, delight trickling down the edges.

“If you insist, my dear,” he purred, pulling a laugh out of Crowley.

He was still chuckling to himself, as Aziraphale ordered some cuscus to share as appetizer and then lamb with prunes for Crowley and _kefta_ meatball tagine for himself. Choosing the wine to go with the food turned out to be quite the complicated affair, and Crowley ended up spacing out a bit, as Aziraphale held a lengthy discussion with the waiter. Crowley was however made keenly aware of the issue once the waiter was gone, and Aziraphale launched himself into a very detailed narrative about Moroccan food and beverages that lasted halfway into their dinner.

Crowley listened to Aziraphale’s chattering with what he feared was a loopy, foolish grin painted onto his face. The lengthy debate with the waiter had brought a bottle of rich red wine as a result, which seemed to please Aziraphale enough to make his eyes sparkle in the dim lights (that could also be the lit candle decorating their table, to be fair, but Crowley’s crush was by now out of control enough that perhaps he was actually dreaming the sparks of light in Aziraphale’s eyes), and that Crowley as well found rather good (his taste was not nearly as refined as Aziraphale’s, but he could still enjoy a fine wine, whatever Anathema said).

The food was also delicious, as Crowley assured Aziraphale the few times he asked. Crowley’s approval seemed to give Aziraphale some sort of deep satisfaction, if the faint pink on his cheeks was any indication.

It also prompted him to offer a bite from his own dish, to which Crowley easily agreed.

After a moment of deliberation, Aziraphale scooped up some _kefta_ with a bit of Moroccan bread and held it out. Crowley hesitated, uncertain about how to pick the bite from Aziraphale’s fingers without making a mess everywhere, until he caught sight of Aziraphale’s eyes from the other side of the table. They were huge, and dark, and were staring at him with almost unblinking focus.

Crowley inhaled sharply, hit by a sudden bout of divine inspiration, and slowly, slowly, leant forward to eat the bite directly from Aziraphale’s fingers. He’d been so delicate that he’d barely brushed them with his lips, he thought with no small amount of satisfaction, but the breath left Aziraphale’s mouth in a loud rush that sounded suspiciously like a groan. Crowley licked his lips as he straightened up, because he really couldn’t _not_ to, and was treated with a glassy stare and red cheeks. The moment lingered, like a pure note hanging in the air, until Crowley pulled a grin that was rewarded with an exasperated scoff. But Aziraphale’s eyes were soft in the dim lights, and Crowley secretly hoped a bit fond, too.

The dinner ended with a piping hot glass of mint tea, which Crowley had tried before but never really developed a taste for. He wasn’t exactly against the whole concept of tea, but nothing could beat coffee. The mint tea was more tolerable than Earl Grey, though, and Crowley didn’t mind sipping it carefully as he moaned a bit about the legwork Beelzebub had put him to do during the last few days. Not that he minded being out and about instead of sequestered into the office, but even Crowley could do better things with his time than interviewing the proud owner of a new retail shop in Chelsea or the seven-year-old whose cat had three million followers on Instagram. He was starting to miss the inane gossip about obscure starlets, or even the crazy florists who saw Jesus in their begonias. Thankfully enough, his week of slavery was about to end, and he’d soon be back to some slightly less embarrassingly useless work.

The evening was beautiful enough that they took a walk after dinner, chattering about nothing in particular as London’s nightlife streamed around them. The restaurant was in walking distance from Aziraphale’s flat, and Crowley had already parked the Bentley for the night in a nearby underground car park.

It felt a bit strange, Crowley mused vaguely, being out and about with Aziraphale like that. They’d been seeing each other often enough, but that was a date, a proper date, one that hopefully would end with some shagging, and Crowley could feel the subtle undercurrent of anticipation swirl in his blood like a current. He wondered if Aziraphale felt it too, that pull, tempering with his shallow reserves of patience. He wondered if he could feel Crowley’s hunger, sizzling in the silence, lapping at his kin.

They fell silent, after a while. They weren’t touching, but they walked close enough to brush against each other at every step, the contact electric like static energy. Crowley felt tipsy, the rich wine not really enough to get him drunk, and yet he was dizzy with it, with Aziraphale’s proximity, with the knowledge of what was to come. Then Aziraphale sighed at his side, brushing Crowley’s naked hand with his gloved one.

“Let’s go home, my dear,” he said, so very softly. “We never got to that bottle of Château Lafite, if memory serves.”

“You were the one who changed his mind, I seem to remember,” Crowley quipped. “I have some stuff in my car I need to pick up, though. The parking lot is not far.”

“It’s not really my fault I got... distracted,” Aziraphale grumbled back, as he followed Crowley through the busy streets. Crowley found his Bentley in the crowded car park with minimal effort, and pulled his travel bag from the back seat before locking the door back again.

“Here, all done,” he said, slinging the bag over his shoulder. “We can go.”

It’d been an odd experience, packing that bag. Crowley travelled out of London often enough for work that he kept his travel bag always topped up and ready to go, but he couldn’t remember the last time he actually took the time to bring something over for one of his dalliances. He usually got his release in more time-efficient ways when he got out on a weekday, and he didn’t really need to pack anything for the day after when he spent the night somewhere during the weekend. Not that he actually bothered to be out and about much during the week, as of late. A quick blowjob in a cramped, filthy bathroom wasn’t really worth the hassle anymore.

The flat was just as cluttered as he remembered, as Aziraphale led him into it. Crowley left his bag by the door, and felt something warm spread through his chest when Aziraphale insisted to help him out of his coat.

“You can sit on the couch, dear,” Aziraphale urged him, as he hung both their coats on the hanger by the door. He was still wearing his deerskin gloves, and the deliberate gestures with which he peeled them off his hands caught Crowley’s eye and refused to let go. “I’ll get the wine.”

Since there was nothing else for him to do, Crowley decided that following directions was probably the best course of action. He sprawled his long limbs on the couch and waited for Aziraphale to come back, trying and failing not to feel a bit at a loss. He was a grown man, with a solid number of partners behind. There was no reason to feel nervous only because he couldn’t remember the last time he got through somebody’s door without at least a hand on their prick and a very clear idea of what the evening was going to entail. They were there, in Aziraphale’s flat, and hopefully they were going to shag in a short time. Crowley didn’t really have a lot of experience about all that dating stuff, but shagging he knew, and he guessed he could hold on until then.

He tried to give Aziraphale one of his usual smarmy smirks when the man came back with a bottle of wine and two glasses, but his bluffing skills had obviously taken a huge blow during the past week (or Aziraphale had become alarmingly good at spotting Crowley’s attempts at deflection), since there was a slight frown on Aziraphale’s face as he poured wine for both and handed Crowley his glass. He didn’t say anything, though, for which Crowley was infinitely grateful.

Aziraphale placed the bottle on his cluttered desk and took his place beside Crowley on the couch, warm and soft and close enough to touch. Crowley almost made a tasteless joke about Aziraphale wanting him drunk and pliant to diffuse the tension, but luckily enough he remembered the last time he’d tried it and the terrible results he’d got for his trouble, and decided that keeping his mouth shut was the way to go.

Aziraphale valiantly struggled to keep the conversation alive, but even he could only chatter for so long before being forced to notice that something was amiss. He gently plucked Crowley’s empty glass from his fingers and placed it beside his own on the cluttered desk.

“Is everything all right, my dear?” he asked, reaching out to take Crowley’s hand. The frown on his forehead deepened, as Crowley unwittingly flinched at the sudden touch. “You seem awfully nervous.”

Crowley swore under his breath at his useless self. He was floundering, with absolutely no clue about what he was supposed to do or say to keep the evening from being irremediably spoiled. He knew that all _that_, whatever _that_ was, was supposed to get them in the right mood, but he’d been in the right mood the moment he’d seen Aziraphale and didn’t really know how to ride the tension, to let anticipation brew between them until intimate touch would become natural. He would’ve gone for Aziraphale’s belt the moment he’d closed the door behind them, but he sensed that Aziraphale expected something else from him, and it was making him nervous, having absolutely no idea about what that _something else_ actually was. What would happen, if Crowley couldn’t deliver? And what if his inability to give his partner what they wanted was the reason no one had ever stuck around?

Perhaps _Crowley_ was the problem. Perhaps he was simply not built for a relationship, only for some clumsy handling in the back of a club.

But Aziraphale didn’t have to know. Not yet, at least.

“What are you on about, angel?” he answered, cringing a bit at how gruff he sounded. “I’m not nervous.”

Aziraphale arched a brow so high on his forehead that Crowley felt almost offended. He hummed softly, stroking a thumb over Crowley’s knuckles. Crowley felt the tenderness of the touch echo in his belly like a gong.

“My dear,” Aziraphale said then, a bit tentatively, “I hope you know that we don’t really have to do anything, if you don’t want to or you’re not comfortable with it. I didn’t ask you here so that I could ravage you.” A chuckle. “Well, maybe a little. But just a little.”

Crowley scoffed in reply, a bit breathless at that ravaging issue and a lot offended at being handled like a shrinking violet.

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course I want to!” he grumbled, realising only belatedly how that sounded. Well. He wouldn’t exactly _mind_ being ravaged, so it wasn’t all that far off the mark, he supposed.

“Hmm.” Aziraphale’s eyes were bright and a little wicked, as he brought Crowley’s hand to his mouth and kissed every knuckle. His cheeks were dusted in pink, though whether that was from the wine or something else Crowley couldn’t rightly say. “What seems to be the matter, then?”

The touch of Aziraphale’s lips on the back of his hand was slow and lingering and very distracting, so Crowley couldn’t really be blamed for what came tumbling out of his mouth without any sort of permission from his muddled, tipsy brain.

“I’m not used to... well. This.”

Aziraphale flipped Crowley’s hand, trailing lingering kisses across his palm. It felt horrendously intimate, the tickling of his lips on a part of his body that Crowley hadn’t really known to be so sensitive, and he shuddered somewhere low and deep as Aziraphale lazily unbuttoned the cufflink and freed his wrist. It looked laughably thin in Aziraphale’s strong hand.

“This?” Aziraphale echoed, low and subdued. Crowley struggled to breath, as he felt Aziraphale’s thumb follow the bluish line of his vein under the paper-thin skin of his wrist.

“Dating,” Crowley blurted out, because he couldn’t think anymore, even less make up some merciful lie. “I don’t... date. Often. Er.”

“More the pity,” Aziraphale whispered, his warm breath against the oversensitive skin of Crowley’s palm raising goosebumps in a wave up to his nape. Crowley was feeling hot all over, his heart picking up speed in his chest, and Aziraphale was barely kissing his wrist. “What is it that you do, then?”

Crowley swallowed thickly. It was a strange, lingering touch, tickling in a way that seemed to be directly connected to his cock. It was oddly chaste, and deeply sensuous.

“My encounters are usually more... direct,” he finally found in himself enough brainpower to answer. He didn’t really know how else to tell Aziraphale that he would start shagging people almost before they stumbled through the door, and hoped against hope that Aziraphale wouldn’t ask for details. He wasn’t sure he would be able to tell him more than that.

Luckily enough, Aziraphale didn’t seem in the mood to investigate further (or, perhaps, he’d already got everything he needed). Crowley felt the solid warmth of Aziraphale’s body pressing against his side as Aziraphale shifted close, and almost yelped in surprise when Aziraphale’s strong hand slid between his legs and grasped his inner thigh.

“Is this better, my dear?” Aziraphale whispered, pressing kisses along Crowley’s jaw, down his neck. His hand was kneading a patch of particularly sensitive flesh, and Crowley was having trouble breathing, swallowing great gulps of air in uneven gasps. He curled an arm around Aziraphale’s back, keeping him close, but really holding onto him.

“_Angel_,” Crowley groaned, a deep, needy whine. It was a mortifying sort of sound, especially when Aziraphale had been barely kissing his neck, but it seemed to spur Aziraphale on like a veritable cattle prod. Crowley felt the sharp edge of his teeth against his pulse, and shuddered, as Aziraphale’s clever fingers got rid of his tie.

He realised that Aziraphale had done quick work of the buttons on his shirt only when he felt a gust of cool air hit his belly, and Aziraphale urged him to take it off.

“Let me see you, gorgeous boy,” Aziraphale purred, helping him out of his shirt. Crowley complied as if in a dream, the cool air raising goosebumps on his arms, but so very welcome as the heat spiked under his skin. He felt hot all over, a ripple of shivers trailing along his back. He cradled Aziraphale’s face in his palms, and Aziraphale smiled at him, sharp and soft at the same time.

“You are so beautiful, my dear,” Aziraphale sighed, surging up to kiss his lips, slowly, a lingering peck. Crowley sighed into the kiss, and Aziraphale slipped his tongue inside his mouth, wicked and through, in a brief, tender slide. He was palming Crowley’s sides, his belly, his pecs, as though he wanted to touch everything at once and couldn’t decide where he wanted to stop first.

Crowley’s nipples weren’t very sensitive, but he felt the touch nevertheless, when Aziraphale lingered to thumb one. He was peppering little biting kisses all over Crowley’s mouth, sucking on his lips, pushing his tongue inside.

Crowley spread his legs with a deep, echoing groan when he felt Aziraphale’s hand slip between his thighs, palming his stiffening cock. Pleasure and relief and a spiked sort of need cursed through his bloodstream, making him keen.

“What is it that you like, my darling?” Aziraphale whispered in his ear, nipping at the hard shell, flicking at the lobe with his tongue.

Crowley tried to shoot back that whatever Aziraphale was doing was working just fine, but it was difficult to coordinate such complicated motor skills when Aziraphale was pitilessly grinding the heel of his hand against Crowley’s cock and nipping down his neck. Crowley threw back his head, hitting the backrest of Aziraphale’s couch with a thud and arching his neck.

“Maybe I should find out by myself,” Aziraphale chuckled, somewhere around his collar bone. Crowley felt the bite of his teeth, and realised that Aziraphale had latched on the fading bruise he’d left on Crowley last time and was deepening it, bringing the blood back to the surface. Making sure that it would stay. Crowley shuddered at the subtle possessiveness of the gesture, needle-thin and just as deeply reaching.

He was gasping for breath when Aziraphale pressed a heavy kiss against his throat, before unhurriedly trailing down his sternum.

“I can feel the beating of your heart,” Aziraphale whispered, looking up at him with dark, heavy-lidded eyes. The scent of his skin was intoxicating so up close, mixed with the smell of sandalwood and books and Moroccan spices. “What a darling thing you are.”

Aziraphale’s words, spoken with that molten, honeyed voice of his, hit him low. Crowley groaned, deep and shuddering and desperate, and almost whacked Aziraphale in the face as he tried to cradle his skull with the hand that wasn’t currently busy holding onto his waistcoat for dear life.

Aziraphale chuckled at that, allowing Crowley to grab a fistful of his hair, so very gently. He licked at the pebbled mound of Crowley’s nipple, set his teeth against the raised flesh.

“Where do you like to be touched best, my dear?” Aziraphale whispered, his breath hot and cold at the same time against Crowley’s damp skin. It made him shudder, the tingly, confusing sensory response.

Crowley took a deep, quivering breath, before opening eyes that he didn’t remember to have closed and looking down at the hand Aziraphale was grinding against his cock. Aziraphale followed his gaze, and chuckled against his skin. It was such a joyous sound, so vibrant and beautiful and glittering, that Crowley felt it ripple along his spine, pooling in his belly.

“Aside from the obvious.”

Crowley licked his lips, trying to find his voice. It was difficult to think clearly, between the jagged waves of pleasure and the persistent ache of his trapped cock. Aziraphale was winding him up like a toy, every touch a turn of the screw, tightening the spring. He felt hot all over, and Aziraphale’s pink cheeks and twinkling eyes spiked his need like fine whiskey.

“Here,” Crowley grumbled in a gravelly voice, spreading his legs wider and dragging a hand against his inner thigh, sparking a shiver. “Here is... good.”

Aziraphale watched the slow drag of Crowley’s hand with absolute focus, reflexively licking his lips. The gesture sparked a shiver down Crowley’s spine.

“I see,” Aziraphale purred, voice rough and low. Before Crowley was completely aware of what was going on, Aziraphale was thumbing his jeans open, and trying to get him out of them.

It didn’t work very well. Crowley was sweating in his clothes, and it took Aziraphale some tugging to get the blasted things off him. But Aziraphale’s laugh was as bright as a bell as he finally managed to slide the stubborn fabric down Crowley’s calves, and he looked beyond pleased crawling back between his spread thighs.

Crowley keened, an embarrassing sound, when Aziraphale kneeled between his legs and splayed his hands on each of Crowley’s thighs, spreading them wider. The shape of Crowley’s cock, straining the fabric of his black boxers, looked beyond lurid as Aziraphale slowly nuzzled it from root to tip.

Crowley flailed as he felt the edge of Aziraphale’s teeth press against his inner thigh, and could only hold on, hands sunk tight into blond curls as Aziraphale peppered wet kisses and sucking bites on the tender skin. Pleasure was spiking in ebbs and high tides, making his back arch, his toes curl. But there was a painful edge to that pleasure, and Crowley groaned in relief when Aziraphale distractedly stroked his cock through his pants, dulling it a little. But it kept growing, like a wave, making his muscles tremble, his balls ache in its wake. Too much to keep still and not enough to topple over. Crowley pulled at Aziraphale’s hair, and felt him chuckle against his thigh, the skin wet and bruised and painfully sensitive.

Crowley felt the air leave his lungs with a whoosh, light-headed and achingly turned on, when Aziraphale palmed the hard length of his still-clothed cock and mouthed at his balls.

“I’m... ah, I’m clean,” he blurted out, without really any connection still functioning between his mouth and his brain. It seemed like an important thing to say, in the moment.

He got a stare for an answer, and whined, when Aziraphale stopped the pointed mouthing at his clothed cock.

“I just, you know,” Crowley blabbered, panic suddenly spiralling in his muddled brain. “Wanted to tell you. I’m clean, if you ever wanted to... er. You know.”

_I’m clean, he said, in case you wanted to suck my cock._

Oh, that was so atrociously awkward.

Crowley wriggled a little under Aziraphale’s stare, growing uncomfortably lucid in the still moment. Maybe that was not at all what Aziraphale had in mind. Crowley should’ve done what he always did, go for a condom if he was being smart, and do without if he wasn’t. He usually was, but not as often as he would’ve liked. He had a bit of a soft spot for oral sex. He just liked it too much, and sucking on plastic wasn’t really the same thing.

Aziraphale knelt still for a moment longer, before resting his hands on Crowley’s thighs and sitting back on his hunches.

He’d ruined it, hadn’t he.

“Did you get checked... for me?” Aziraphale asked, careful and a bit guarded, searching his face for something.

Wonderful. It was getting even more awkward. And there he was, splayed like an open book in front of Aziraphale with an erection that seemed about as uncertain as he was on the direction taken by the proceedings. His balls didn’t seem to have got the memo, though, since they were still aching.

“Er... not exactly?” Crowley bit out. “I had an appointment two weeks ago. I try to be good with those. I got the results before we left for the... the wedding.”

“I see,” Aziraphale answered, so very quietly. He sounded _disappointed_, if Crowley had to make a wild guess. Crowley didn’t like that unexpected development one bit.

“But I haven’t been with anyone since before we met,” he blurted out, before he could really think it over. “So, yeah.”

Aziraphale’s face seemed to soften at that, and the smile Crowley got for his trouble was the most blinding thing he’d ever seen.

“I see,” Aziraphale said again, but with an entirely different voice. His eyes were impossibly tender, as he looked up at Crowley. “You’re better than me, I’m afraid. I should probably make an appointment. Just to be on the safe side.”

The words hit Crowley unaware, like a blow. He hadn’t known what he’d expected. Aziraphale didn’t owe him anything. Not everyone was such a sad sap as Crowley was, and Aziraphale had every right to get some fun on the side, especially since they weren’t really seeing each other. Crowley was an idiot, an old fool. Maybe he’d just been the last bout of rebound sex in a long string.

Crowley tried to shutter the disappointment down, but it was too raw, and Aziraphale was too close, in more than one way. Something had to shine through, because suddenly Aziraphale was up on his knees, his hand warm on Crowley’s cheek.

“Oh, no, my darling, I didn’t mean... I’m making a mess of this. I’m so sorry.” Aziraphale’s smile was painfully gentle, as he stroked Crowley’s cheek with heartbreaking tenderness. “I haven’t been with anyone else, my dear boy. For quite a while.”

Crowley was too busy riding the highs and lows of that conversation to follow exactly what was going on. He was still recovering from that nasty bout of disappointment with something close to hope fluttering in his chest when he realised that Aziraphale had peeled the socks off his feet, and was now tugging at his pants in a rather pointed way. Crowley reflexively pushed himself up, allowing Aziraphale to pull them off, and realised that he was lying there completely naked only when Aziraphale sat down on his hunches to rake his eyes up and down Crowley’s exposed form.

Crowley was used to people ogling him and wasn’t shy of his body in the slightest, but there was something in the way Aziraphale was staring at him that made him feel vulnerable. It was a visceral, shuddering feeling, sharpened by the fact that Aziraphale, on the other hand, was completely dressed. The waistcoat had protected his shirt from being rumpled by their activities, and he looked painfully put together, unruffled before Crowley’s naked skin in a way that was belied by the pink cheeks and hungry eyes, but still stark enough to hit Crowley hard and low, like a punch. He felt his cock twitch under the heavy stare, hard and red and aching.

“Well,” Aziraphale whispered, slowly lifting his dark eyes to Crowley’s face. “I guess we’ll have to wait, then.”

Crowley struggled to hold in a keen, high and trembling, and swallowed thickly as he forced himself to sit still, instead of begging Aziraphale to touch him again. That calm, pointed stare was almost unbearable, reaching places Crowley hadn’t even known existed, buried deep inside his quivering flesh.

“...wait?” he managed to push out, trying to rein in his frustration. “What for?!”

Aziraphale’s eyes were twinkling, as he rose on his knees and ran his hands along Crowley’s thighs. Crowley groaned at the touch, spreading them wider.

“You know what for,” Aziraphale purred. “It wouldn’t do to be irresponsible, would it?”

Crowley was wound up too tight to get a grip on himself and focus on Aziraphale’s words at the same time. He felt as though his flesh was melting, skin tingling wherever Aziraphale touched it. He had both palms lying on the tops of Crowley’s thighs, thumbs pressing down in the divots where his legs met his groin, tantalisingly close to his cock. It’d started weeping, at some point, and the tip was glistening over the furiously red skin. His slit looked painfully delicate as Aziraphale stroked his index against it, spreading the precome, and Crowley couldn’t hold in his shuddering keen at the electric pleasure sparked by that careful touch.

“But...” he tried to protest, when he caught up his breath, only to be met by a husky chuckle. He was holding onto the spread covering the ancient couch for dear life, handfuls of it crumpled in his fists.

“Oh, I see,” Aziraphale rumbled, low and pointed, using his index and thumb to push the taut skin out of the way and better expose the slit. He watched with fascinated focus the oozing precome coalesce slowly into a glistening bead, and punched a deep groan out of Crowley’s lips as he bent down to lick it away with the tip of his tongue.

Crowley thought his heart was going to beat straight out of his chest as Aziraphale looked up, obviously assessing the taste of him.

“Perhaps I should rephrase that,” Aziraphale carried on, slow and hushed. “_You_ will have to wait. I, on the other hand, have been blessed with a more thoughtful partner than you have.”

Despite the shuddering tension, the lurking pleasure, the word stuck in Crowley’s head like a needle. He blinked at Aziraphale, breath catching, loathing to ruin the moment but unable to hold back.

“...partner?” he breathed, feeling himself totter on the edge of the precipice, the word laden with meaning. Aziraphale could’ve simply meant it as sexual partner, with no implication whatsoever, and suddenly Crowley needed to know, even if he didn’t have the words to ask. He could only hope that Aziraphale would understand him, understand which sort of question he was asking, and when Aziraphale looked up with a troubled spark in his eyes, Crowley knew he did.

The silence hung for a moment in the still air, sticky and heavy, like dripping honey.

“...yes? I’ve never liked the word boyfriend, it sounds so... juvenile,” Aziraphale eventually ventured to answer, something guarded shimmering in his eyes, echoing in his voice. Something old and scarred, like a badly healed wound. “Is there something wrong? Have I... misread something, my dear?”

Relief, deep and shuddering, bloomed in Crowley’s chest. He felt it spread into his body, so hot and violent it ached, eyes stinging with it.

“No!” he rushed to answer, breath catching, skin pebbling in shivers. “I just thought... that’s... partner is good. Yes.”

Aziraphale’s eyes did something complicated, then, softening in a way that should’ve been impossible, as his mouth quirked up in a painfully tender smile. Crowley felt the gentleness of it like a blow, drowning into it, tottering on the edge of too much. It hurt, in a way. Like hot water on frozen skin.

“Good.” Aziraphale looked down, his smile turning sharp as he took in Crowley’s slightly wilting erection. “Now, let’s do something about this.”

Crowley almost cried out loud at the feeling of Aziraphale’s soft lips close on the tip of his cock, purposely sucking the precome beading the skin into his wet mouth. Aziraphale hummed at the taste, the warm breath whooshing out of his nose brushing Crowley’s aching flesh. It made him shudder, suddenly and so violently he would’ve pushed deeper into that welcoming mouth if it hadn’t been for the hand Aziraphale had curled around the base of his cock. He was cradling Crowley’s sack with the other, a delicate touch, brutally intimate, long fingers brushing the underside while his thumb stroked gently the paper-thin skin stretching between his balls.

“Angel,” Crowley gasped, because there wasn’t anything else he could do, save tugging at the blanket so hard he vaguely thought he would rip it apart.

Aziraphale hummed around him, a deep, vibrating sound that Crowley felt ripple against his skin as Aziraphale sank lower. It was difficult to keep still, pleasure and agonizing need swirling like a fanged sort of madness into his blood, but the hand Aziraphale kept around his base was enough to control the depth. It was also a steady pressure, milking pleasure out of Crowley in waves, as Aziraphale stroked him evenly while leisurely sucking on his cockhead. He was taking his time, Crowley realised with a shuddering groan, tonguing the slit and using his lips to add delicious pressure against Crowley’s straining flesh as his mouth met his fist in the middle. He was so deliciously wet, so warm and so tight and so unbearably perfect, that Crowley thought vaguely he was going to die before Aziraphale finally decided to stop toying with him and seriously get down to business.

He whined, high and broken, as Aziraphale pulled off with a parting kiss and mouthed at his balls, pulling at the skin with his teeth so delicately it felt like a punch in the guts before dragging the flat of his tongue against the length of him, thorough and atrociously slow.

“Hmm,” Aziraphale sighed, licking at the tip before pulling off just enough to take a good look at Crowley’s cock, red and glistening wet and straining in the gentle hold of his hand. “I do enjoy the shape of you.”

Crowley groaned at the purr of his voice, head thumping against the backrest as he closed his eyes. He could feel the first tendrils of his orgasm stretch out from the knot of agonizing pleasure growing in his belly, and he desperately wanted that to last. But it wasn’t easy, with the bruising kisses Aziraphale was sucking apparently everywhere, the pressure maddening. Crowley was tense like a bow, poised right on the edge, as Aziraphale’s hand stroked his length in agonizingly slow pulls.

“Let go, my darling,” Aziraphale cooed, thumb rubbing at his slit as he licked the oversensitive stripe right underneath the flared head. “Don’t hold back.”

And even through the haze fogging his mind, Crowley realised that he’d been given permission to come in his mouth, as Aziraphale took him inside once again and pushed down farther than before, until the tip of Crowley’s cock nudged against the back of his throat.

The sucking pressure, the sudden heat, that deliriously glorious wetness, pushed him right over the edge. Pleasure bloomed in a white spike behind his lids and he kicked out, heels thumping against the thick carpet and sliding forward, spine arching, as he came and came and came in Aziraphale’s welcoming mouth, his orgasm swiping across him like a wave, drowning everything else in its wake. He felt it in his chest, his nape, his legs, his cheeks, the tips of his nose and his curled toes, tingling, pervasive and all-encompassing, pulled out of him almost brutally as Aziraphale swallowed and swallowed around his aching, pulsing flesh. Crowley collapsed against the couch a moment later, his own broken moans still ringing in his ears, breath coming out in frantic pants and heart thudding riotously against the steely cage of his chest.

He realised he’d closed his eyes only when he felt Aziraphale’s lips brushing against his mouth, delicate and tortuously sweet. He kissed back, almost as if in a dream, and Aziraphale pushed his tongue between Crowley’s lips, giving him a taste of himself. Crowley groaned into it, and then sucked on Aziraphale’s tongue, greedily chasing the proof of his orgasm pressed so deeply into Aziraphale’s flesh, like a mark.

He was still trying to catch his breath, sweat beading on his cooling skin and heart struggling to slow down, when he heard Aziraphale fret about. Then a blanket was wrapped around his shoulders, and Crowley found himself being held ever so gently in the circle of Aziraphale’s arms. He snuggled closer, momentarily too exhausted even to reciprocate, hiding his face into Aziraphale’s neck as Aziraphale tightened his grip.

“You were so good, my dearest, so beautiful,” Aziraphale cooed into Crowley’s ear, low and so sweet that honey dripped from his voice. It did something to Crowley, reaching deep inside, soothing some hidden raw places, as warmth spread into his aching body, slowing his panting breath, unclenching bristling muscles. He groaned into Aziraphale’s neck, an almost shuddering sound, and Aziraphale held him up when he crumbled against him, aching and boneless. “My darling boy. Such a sweet thing. You needed that, didn’t you? You needed someone to take care of you.”

Crowley had no energy left to feel even shame, as he whined softly into the dark, comforting space of Aziraphale’s neck. The smell of him was oddly familiar, and the texture of his worn clothes against naked skin painfully comforting. Crowley let himself be held for a long time, mind growing hazy at the rhythmic lullaby of Aziraphale’s steady breathing and the gentle stroking of his hands up and down Crowley’s back. It was warm under the blanket, and it felt safe in a way Crowley didn’t really want to examine. He let himself drift off, lazy and satisfied and in a strange, almost sedated state of mind, a quiet so deep and so slow that Crowley couldn’t remember having ever experienced.

He emerged from that wondrous silence with a gasp, as he realised that he’d been, what, dozing off?, and letting Aziraphale fend off for himself. He felt confused, struggling against a strange haze not unlike the sticky dreamlike state between sleep and awareness. He tried to push away from Aziraphale, who tightened his grip on him for a moment before begrudgingly letting him go. Crowley glanced up, bewildered and slightly off, struggling to shake off that relaxed, heavy stillness.

“What’s wrong, my darling?” Aziraphale asked, so very softly. He was still holding Crowley close, his blue eyes calm and a little hazy in the silence. It didn’t make any sense. He hadn’t come yet, and Crowley had gone and dozed off instead of taking care of him.

“’m sorry, I’m not sure...” Crowley started, then took a deep breath, trying to get back his bearings. “I don’t usually fall asleep straight after I come. Here, let me,” he carried on, feeling his ears grow hot and pink for the embarrassment. He tried to reach for Aziraphale’s belt, but his hands felt clumsy, muscles refusing to work properly. He couldn’t get rid of the heavy fog clouding his mind, somehow growing even stickier at the pulses of alarm and anxiousness lapping at his thoughts.

Aziraphale hummed, his slow breath soothing Crowley’s brittle state of mind as he took hold of Crowley’s wrists and kept him still.

“There is no rush, my dear,” he murmured, bringing one of Crowley’s hands to his mouth and placing soft kisses against his palm. His eyes were closed, his touch unhurried. Crowley’s breath caught at the sight. “It’s early, still. We have time.”

The words washed over him like the tide, hushed and powerful, spreading like old roots, and Crowley wasn’t strong enough to fight them. He let Aziraphale pull him back into his arms, and held on tight with his arms wound up around Aziraphale’s waist as a wide hand curled around his nape and cradled his head close to a solid chest. Crowley nosed his way to Aziraphale’s throat, and pressed his closed eyes against the warm slope of his neck as Aziraphale leaned his cheek against the crown of Crowley’s head with a deep, satisfied sigh.

The world was dark, there, and soft, and warm, and Crowley realised with almost painful relief that there was no need to struggle, as the waves pulled him deeply under.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely people!  
For a hot moment there I almost lost my muse, but I dragged her back kicking and screaming by the hair. I couldn’t let you down, not after all the love you’ve been throwing my way <3 Your comments are truly the fuel that keeps my writing engines going.  
Talking about love, I’d like to thank [uponwhatgrounds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uponwhatgrounds/pseuds/uponwhatgrounds) for gifting me with yet _another_ amazing [piece of art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23409952). The artist is such a wonderful human being, and I feel so spoiled <3  
I hope you’ll like the chapter. You hold on during these shitty times, and I’ll keep the filth coming <3

Crowley had no idea how long they stayed like that. It felt like hours, and the lack of clues coming from their surroundings did nothing to help him in his confusion. But he felt calm, calmer than he’d ever been, an almost eerie silence ringing in his mind. He blinked, once, twice, before stirring slightly. Aziraphale let him go without complaints this time, even if his hand remained heavy and possessive against Crowley’s nape.

Crowley leaned forward and kissed him, slowly, lingering, delighting in the soft press of Aziraphale’s lips against his own. Aziraphale kissed him back with the same lazy tenderness, his thumb stroking gently the side of Crowley’s neck as his hold around Crowley’s nape tightened for a moment before loosening.

“Would you like to go to bed, dearest?” Aziraphale murmured, a low rumble in his chest. Crowley sighed against his cheek.

“Sounds like a plan,” he answered, vaguely horrified by how drowsy his voice sounded.

Aziraphale chuckled against the crown of his head.

“Well, more like a draft than a plan,” Aziraphale purred, all idle happiness and pointed humour, “but I do have something in mind.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

There was a gentle but definitive note in the way Aziraphale kissed his forehead, like a period at the end of a sentence.

“Let’s get you in bed, first.”

Aziraphale let him go, and although the lack of contact fizzled on his skin like discharged energy, Crowley took advantage of that freedom of movement to stretch leisurely like a lazy cat.

“I like this plan already.”

He was awarded with a soft, easy laugh, as Aziraphale got to his feet. Crowley pulled the quilt a little tighter around his shoulders, watching him potter about. Now that the sweat had cooled onto his skin, Crowley felt a bit chilly in the draughty flat, even if Aziraphale had turned on the heating as soon as they walked through the door.

“Are you cold, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley realised suddenly with something between unease and heat that Aziraphale picked up on way more than he let on. “Would you like a glass of wine before we go? To warm you up.”

Crowley considered the offer. As much as he loved wine, he’d rather have Aziraphale warm him up, however cheesy that sounded. He shook his head.

“’m fine. It can keep.”

Aziraphale smiled at him, a soft, secret smile, as though he’d read his mind. The approval in that smile brushed against Crowley’s skin like a feather, soft and tingly.

“All right. Give me a moment to tidy up and we’ll go.”

Crowley almost protested at that, but then realised that with ‘tidying up’ Aziraphale had actually meant sealing the precious bottle to avoid spoiling the wine, and chuckled to himself. He also felt too relaxed and lazy to do much that wasn’t curling up in his quilt and looking at Aziraphale. He only realised he’d closed his eyes again when he felt the back of a soft hand brushing his cheek, bringing him back to the present.

“You look beaten, darling,” Aziraphale said, concern colouring his low voice. “You should get some sleep.”

“I’m relaxed, not dead,” Crowley grumbled back, shedding his quilt with a shrug. He smirked to himself at the way Aziraphale’s gaze automatically swept lower, taking in his body with naked hunger. “We’re not done, yet. Let’s go to bed.”

Aziraphale’s eyes were sharp again, as he looked up at Crowley’s face.

“Very well.”

Aziraphale took a step back, and Crowley more or less gracefully stood up. Aziraphale’s hand was soft and so very warm, as he took Crowley’s and tugged him towards the back of the living room. He was still completely dressed, from the buttoned-up waistcoat to his shiny shoes, and Crowley felt a bit silly and hot all over at the thought of following him to his bedroom stark naked and on bare feet. There was just something so enticing, so powerful in that brutal juxtaposition that it hit Crowley all over again, low and reaching, like dripping heat.

Aziraphale’s bedroom turned out to be pretty much the same as his living room, only with a double bed and a wardrobe in it. Books were piled up on the floor, on the chest of drawers, on the night table. Crowley was honestly surprised to find a book-free bed.

“I tried to tidy up a bit,” Aziraphale mumbled, a bit chagrined, “but.... well.”

“Too many books to know what to do with them?” Crowley teased, letting go of Aziraphale’s hand and bouncing on the bed. Aziraphale’s appreciative gaze turned a bit glassy, as he stared at Crowley from above.

“More or less.”

Crowley smirked up at him, unable to hide the deep satisfaction swirling in his blood at Aziraphale’s distracted answer.

“You have me in your bed, angel,” he purred, placing his hands on the mattress behind his back and bracing his weight on his outstretched arms. “What are you planning to do with me, now?”

Aziraphale snorted, actually _snorted_ at his quip.

“You really need better lines, darling,” he chuckled, slowly unbuttoning his waistcoat. Crowley didn’t know if he felt more amused or offended by such a nerve, but as Aziraphale pulled off his waistcoat and loosened his bowtie, he decided that he didn’t really care.

“I don’t know,” he shot back, “my lines are getting me a strip-tease, after all.”

That seemed to startle Aziraphale, somehow. He hesitated, halfway through the daunting task of unbuttoning his white shirt. Crowley, who was waiting with sizzling hunger to take a peek at his skin, groaned in frustration.

“This is not... well. I’m just...” Aziraphale looked down at himself, then at the waistcoat and bowtie he’d tidily folded on the padded seat of the only free chair in the room, and then back at Crowley. His cheeks were pink, something a bit haunted in his eyes. Crowley considered kicking himself until the end of eternity. “Do you really have to stare?”

Crowley scoffed in disbelieving outrage.

“You’re joking, I hope,” he grumbled. “I’m here. Naked. And you’ve been ogling me for hours.”

“I do not _ogle_,” Aziraphale primly replied, though his hands were back to their task, if a bit hesitantly. “I _admire_.”

“I can multitask and do both,” Crowley replied with a toothy grin, “so please, don’t stop on my account.”

Aziraphale scoffed, then laughed, bright and easy. His hands made quick work of the buttons, and there it was, soft naked skin being bared for Crowley’s pleasure as Aziraphale took off his shirt. He was just as pink and lovely as Crowley remembered, barrel-chested with a bit of a round stomach and the hints of muscles under the soft padding. The fuzz on his chest and belly was so pale it shone almost white in the dim lights, just like the nest of curly wisps that framed his half-hard cock, as he took off his shoes and opened his trousers. Then he pulled off his socks and there he was, completely naked, staring at Crowley with something a bit guarded and a bit hard in his eyes and a lovely pink dusting his cheeks.

Crowley’s smirk was so wide it almost hurt, as he scooted farther onto the bed to make some space for Aziraphale.

“You’re gorgeous, angel,” Crowley said, honestly. “Come here.”

Aziraphale’s answering smile was softer, if a bit sharp around the edges. He came closer, and the mattress dipped a little as he climbed onto the bed. Crowley wound a hand in his hair and pulled him closer for a kiss, tracing with the other the shape of Aziraphale’s leg, his side, his chest, and eventually reaching for his hardening cock. It was just as thick as Crowley remembered, wondrously so, velvety foreskin slowly stretching tauter and tauter over stiffening flesh.

Aziraphale chuckled into the kiss as Crowley stroked him, thorough and purposeful.

“Slow down, darling,” Aziraphale purred, sounding vaguely out of breath. “Let’s get comfortable, first.”

Crowley huffed under his breath, but allowed Aziraphale to push him down onto the bed. He tried to reach back for that lovely thick cock, once he was settled, but Aziraphale grabbed his wrist and pressed it against the mattress. It was a surprisingly forceful gesture, coming from Aziraphale, and startled Crowley so much that he didn’t protest when Aziraphale curled around his naked body, effectively holding him into place. Aziraphale felt amazing against him, all soft skin and sturdy flesh, a study in contrast. The fuzz on his chest tickled Crowley’s side, and he felt his own cock twitch in response at the pressure of Aziraphale’s hard-on against his thigh.

“Oh,” Crowley said, in a bout of exceptional cleverness, as Aziraphale used his own stretched arm to cushion Crowley’s head and hold him closer.

Aziraphale chuckled, low and rumbling, before kissing Crowley’s cheek.

“You feel so wonderful, darling,” he whispered, echoing Crowley’s thoughts. His hand travelled from Crowley’s wrist to his forearm, tickling the delicate crook of his elbow, pawing at his sinewy bicep. He skimmed over Crowley’s collarbone and then landed on his chest, right above his sternum, gentle but heavy, effectively pinning him down. Crowley shivered at the easy strength of the gesture, and left his hand where Aziraphale had put it.

Aziraphale hummed against his cheek, a sound full of such deep, trickling approval that Crowley felt it from his toes to the back of his neck.

“Lovely,” Aziraphale murmured, kissing the jut of Crowley’s jaw, biting at the soft skin below. “You are so good to me. So pliant and sweet.”

Crowley was neither of those things, but he realised with a deep shiver that he _wanted_ to. He wanted to be good and sweet for Aziraphale, he wanted to please him. He could feel that directionless needy feeling that had plagued him his entire life, that urge to be wanted, to be needed, coalesce in that single thought. The need to satisfy Aziraphale swirled across his skin like a tide, sweeping everything away, giving new purpose to any ache hiding in the itching recesses of his very soul, and with it the devastating relief of knowing, with absolute certainty, that his need would be sated. He _would_ be good, he _would_ please Aziraphale, and he would finally be able to rest.

Breath left his chest in a deep sigh, as Aziraphale played with the dark fuzz on Crowley’s chest and sucked on his neck. Crowley wondered vaguely just how many hickeys he’d be sporting the day after, and congratulated himself for his foresight in packing a turtleneck. The last thing he needed was to end his week with Anathema hounding him down for details. He was jealous of Aziraphale, he realised, as he groaned at the gentle scrape of nails across his nipple; jealous of the time they spent together. He didn’t want any interloper to meddle with whatever was brewing between them, even well-meaning ones. The pressure of Aziraphale’s teeth against his skin was his and his only.

Crowley sighed, so deep it felt as though it’d been tugged straight out of his chest, as Aziraphale stroked the fuzzy trail under Crowley’s bellybutton and sank his fingers in the unkempt mess of wispy hairs framing his prick. It was a bit soon, especially after that mind-blowing orgasm that Aziraphale had literally sucked out of him, but heat was pooling again in Crowley’s belly, thick and dripping, and the foreskin was pulling away from the red tip of his cock as it staggered back to hardness.

Aziraphale tucked his head under Crowley’s chin to get a better view, as he gently peeled the foreskin back to reveal the engorged cockhead. His hair tickled Crowley’s neck as Crowley arched his back with a groan, the feeling of Aziraphale playing with his slit skimming across his skin like electricity.

“Angel,” he panted, pushing his arm under Aziraphale’s neck. “Please. Let me hold you.”

“Of course, my darling,” Aziraphale conceded, pressing lingering kisses all over Crowley’s chest as his hand closed around Crowley’s stiffening cock and lazily pulled at it. Crowley gasped at the touch, sinking a hand in Aziraphale’s curls while he fisted the sheets with the other.

Aziraphale’s tongue felt hot and wonderfully wet against his collar bone, the hollow of his throat, and the touch of that gentle, steady hand sent ribbons of pleasure down his spine. Aziraphale was stroking him at an agonizingly slow pace, apparently relishing the push and pull of foreskin up and down Crowley’s cock. Crowley was almost completely hard by now, as hard as the erection Aziraphale was leisurely rubbing against his side. Even that heavy grinding was sedated, a pace meant more to keep Aziraphale’s cock interested than to get himself off. Crowley shivered at the thought that Aziraphale had obviously something in mind, and was in no rush to get there.

Then Aziraphale’s hand pushed lower, cradling his balls, and Crowley gasped against the soft crown of Aziraphale’s head at the steady drag of his index against Crowley’s perineum.

“Do you like this, darling?” Aziraphale purred, with the obvious aim of hearing Crowley admit that yeah, he really did, since his body was singing so loudly at the way Aziraphale was handling it that it would’ve been impossible for him not to pick up on that. Crowley’s hips snapped into nothing at the maddening pressure against his perineum, his cock bobbing in a congested arch across his belly and dripping precome all over the fuzzy trail under his navel.

“Yes,” Crowley gasped, because he knew that hearing it from his lips would make Aziraphale happy, and the thought was enough to spark a shiver down his spine. “Yes, please. Yes.”

The touch turned pointed, heavier, punching a shuddering groan out of Crowley’s lips before slipping lower. Crowley groaned at the feeling of Aziraphale’s index stroking his hole, not pushing, not _yet_, but firmly pressing against the furled rim.

“Is this something you would enjoy, my dear?” Aziraphale purred, voice gravelly with the weight of sheer want. “Being played with this way, my fingers breaching you?”

Crowley felt the breath leave his lungs in a rush, as though it’d been punched out of him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so painfully turned on, every nerve alive and singing with something that was nearly electric, pervasive and deep and so charged it almost hurt. His poor abandoned cock twitched, another drip of precome splashing onto his quivering belly. He could feel his skin burn with heat, his heart stuttering in his chest into a gallop, the rush of blood in his temples.

“_Yes_,” he panted, when he found his breath again. “Yes, please, yes.”

Aziraphale chuckled against his collar bone, then peeled himself off Crowley. Crowley whined at the sudden lack of touch, but Aziraphale shushed him gently.

“I’m here, darling,” he reassured him, as he stretched to rummage into the top drawer of his night table. “Just getting something I need. It wouldn’t do for you to take my fingers dry.”

Crowley tried to chuckle at the prim words, but it came out wrong, like a wheezing pant. Aziraphale hummed in reply and settled back down, laying his curly head in the crook of Crowley’s elbow.

“Here we go,” he murmured, squeezing some lube onto his fingers, before tossing the tube on the bed beside Crowley’s prone body. “Do you do this often, my dear?”

“Not nearly enough,” Crowley replied, winded and breathless. “It’s been... it’s been a while.”

Crowley tried to remember how long had it been, exactly, but his experiences grew fuzzier the older they got. He remembered being fingered here and there while someone was blowing him, but he had an inkling that what Aziraphale had in mind wasn’t just a few half-hearted dry pushes barely past his rim, or a solitary, desperate wank to silence his broken heart.

Aziraphale hummed again at that revelation, kissing Crowley’s chest as he reached between his legs. He’d taken the time to spread the lube over his fingers, and it was warm and slick, as Aziraphale rubbed it over Crowley’s hole.

The touch was galvanising, like licking a battery. Crowley gasped into it, spreading his legs wider, tugging at the sheets. His cock was wilting a little, but the precome was shining over his belly, wet and rapidly cooling. His skin felt alive in a way Crowley hadn’t felt in years.

Then Aziraphale pushed his finger inside, and Crowley clenched at the intrusion. Aziraphale’s index felt inordinately huge between his walls, which made no sense, since Crowley had fingered himself to orgasm not two weeks before. He gasped as Aziraphale stilled, giving him time to adjust as he nipped at Crowley’s jaw.

“Relax, my dove,” Aziraphale purred, nosing at his neck until he reached his ear. “You’re so tense.”

The endearment startled Crowley enough to distract him from the intrusion, and Aziraphale took advantage of his unclenching muscles to pull out almost to the tip before thrusting slowly back inside.

“Dove?” Crowley repeated, choked voice broken by a deep, shuddering groan. Aziraphale felt so thick inside him, reaching so deep. Crowley wondered briefly and headily what it’d feel like, being split open by his cock.

“Hmm,” Aziraphale hummed, sounding only vaguely affected by the steady grinding of his own hard cock against Crowley’s bony hip. “You don’t like endearments?”

Considering how viscerally Crowley reacted to Aziraphale’s honeyed voice, that was surely not the case. He squirmed, as Aziraphale kept fingering him with the same thorough, slow pace.

“It’s not that, just... dove?”

“Would you prefer something else?” Aziraphale chuckled, his warm breath brushing deliciously against Crowley’s sensitive ear. “My sweet boy, my dear, my darling, the apple of my eyes...”

_My, my, my._

It sparked something deep into Crowley, something aching and needy and hidden so well he’d been barely aware of its existence until that very moment, when Aziraphale had tugged it free. A sort of gaping emptiness.

“Nnnh,” Crowley gasped, then shuddered, so violently he almost bumped his shoulder against Aziraphale’s nose. He felt heat threatening to spill on his face, his skin rippling with shivers, something heavy settling on his stomach. The moment hung, heavy and sticky, before Aziraphale shattered it with a sigh.

“Oh. You like that, being cherished, don’t you?” he whispered into Crowley’s ear, finger buried deep inside his body, opening him up just enough to take another. Crowley keened at the words, at the feeling, the pressure against his walls tortuous and delicious. “_My darling Crowley_.”

It felt almost as if his heart was about to explode in his chest, the pressure of that tenderness growing fangs, impossible to bear. Crowley dug his heels into the mattress, head thrown back into the pillow, baring his throat. Aziraphale took it as an invitation to suck another bruise right above his pulse, while his fingers opened Crowley up with an unbearably slow pace. Crowley could feel the resistance of his muscles, the drawn-out pull as Aziraphale parted his fingers halfway inside and forced his opening to stretch wider.

Crowley had been buggered and fingered his fair share, but there was an agonising intimacy in the way Aziraphale was touching him, taking his time, making sure that Crowley could feel every single drag against his walls, every single surge of pressure against his rim. It made any sort of distancing from the act impossible, anchoring Crowley to the moment with an inescapable grip.

Crowley had always liked best the maddening rush of pleasure that sex usually brought, the annihilating white spike that drowned every noise, every memory, every thought. He’d never experienced something like that, the leisurely bliss of touch for the sake of touch, of pleasure being pulled out of him in single drops instead of yanked out in one go. It was unbearable, violent in its delicacy, brutal in its tenderness. It was pervasive and ruthless and impossible to ignore. It was distilled madness.

Crowley moaned, high and shuddering, when Aziraphale’s ring finger pressed against his rim, gently dragging the soft pad against the loosened loop of muscles before slowly corkscrewing three fingers inside. Crowley’s wilting cock had settled for some sort of half-arsed stiffness, lying heavy and hot against the furry trail under his navel, but it was leaking still, precome pooling in the hollow of his belly. Crowley could do nothing but hold on at that tortuous, thorough fingering, interrupted only by the need to spread more lube onto drying fingers. Every time Aziraphale pulled out, Crowley felt empty in a way that squeezed his chest, breath struggling to reach his lungs.

Crowley was already a panting, shivering mess, when Aziraphale gently tilted back his head and placed a soft kiss against his lips.

“You are so lovely, my sweet boy,” Aziraphale whispered against his mouth. “The way you feel around my fingers is nothing short of divine. But I’m greedy, always have been. I would like to take you, if you would have me.”

It took a long moment for Crowley’s addled brain to realise that Aziraphale had in fact made a request, one that demanded an answer, and even longer to understand exactly what that request was. Crowley’s heart was drumming so violently in his chest that everything else felt a little far away, lost in the woods.

“Yes,” he finally managed to answer, when the fog lifted from his mind long enough to catch Aziraphale’s meaning. “Yes. _Please_.”

He’d idly wondered about being buggered by Aziraphale before, but now he suddenly couldn’t breathe at the thought of Aziraphale deciding _not_ to shag him, after all. The need to feel Aziraphale’s cock inside him was louder than a scream, battering at his skin.

He heard Aziraphale’s sharp intake of breath, felt the pointed, almost bruising force with which he was now grinding his hard cock into Crowley’s hip.

“You ask so prettily, my dove,” Aziraphale said, low and rumbling like a growl. “How could I ever refuse?”

Crowley shivered at the words, at the voice, searching blindly for Aziraphale’s lips to seal them in a searing kiss. Aziraphale swiped his tongue inside Crowley’s mouth messily, forcefully, while his fingers spread him open. Crowley felt the push of Aziraphale’s little finger at his rim, trying to pry it even wider, and gasped against Aziraphale’s mouth as his stomach twisted in his belly.

“It’s enough, angel,” he panted, a shuddering, quivering mess.

“Enough?”

“Yeah,” Crowley gulped, trying to swallow in the overwhelming heat. It was the same draughty old flat, yet he felt as though he was in a jungle, struggling to breathe the thick, humid air. “I don’t need... all that. Just fuck me.”

Aziraphale tutted against his chin, though Crowley wasn’t sure whether he disapproved of the notion or of his choice of words.

“Whatever made you think that I’m doing this to prepare you?” Aziraphale purred, teeth sharp against the jut of Crowley’s jaw. “I like using my hands, I like touching you. And this is such a delicate, intimate place to touch, don’t you agree?”

He stressed his words with a twist of his hand, burying four fingers so deep inside Crowley’s pliant body that Crowley couldn’t help but keen at the feeling of being spread so wide, pinned and helpless. It was a heady, shuddering sort of pleasure, swirling in his mind like a chemical high, buttressed by the physical bliss of his body being so expertly handled.

It felt like an age had passed, by the time Aziraphale finally pulled his fingers free. Crowley felt empty and aching, even as Aziraphale thumbed leisurely his gaping hole.

“How would you like to be taken, my darling?” Aziraphale murmured, slowing down the rutting against Crowley’s side into a lazy grinding. “On your back, like this?”

His blue eyes were almost dark as he stared down at Crowley, the lights behind his head making his blond hair shine like a halo. Suddenly, the idea of being stared at like that, of being seen so utterly, so brutally as he shattered into pieces, felt unbearable to Crowley. It was too much, and he was too raw to take it. Everything that he’d carefully assembled through the years to make himself the Crowley he wanted people to see had been systematically destroyed by Aziraphale in less than three hours, and Crowley felt naked, flayed to the bone, and impossibly vulnerable.

“On all four,” he grumbled, looking away. His voice came out in a wheezy whisper, and was met with a short silence. Then he felt the sweet press of Aziraphale’s lips against his temple, and the mattress shuffled as Aziraphale got to his feet.

“I’ll be back, dearest. Don’t move.”

Crowley closed his eyes, trying to take stock of his body as Aziraphale left him alone. It was difficult to pin down the shape of himself, as though his skin was cracking and fissuring in places and leaking Crowley everywhere. He felt heavy and loose and dazed, his stomach twisted in a knot, his heart thundering. His skin was tight and impossibly hot, sweat beading along his hairline.

He almost startled, when he felt Aziraphale stroking his cheek.

“Are you all right, darling?” Aziraphale murmured, somewhere close. Crowley grumbled something that sounded like an assent, and Aziraphale stroked his arm, helping him to roll over and brace his weight on trembling hands and knees.

“Look at you,” Aziraphale whispered, tracing the bumps of Crowley’s spine with a touch that was slow and almost reverent. “You are so beautiful.”

Crowley groaned, letting his head loll between his stretched arms. The texture of the bed felt odd under his hands, and Crowley realised with some delay that Aziraphale had put a towel under him. He heard the telltale crinkle of a foil being broken, and after a moment Aziraphale was shuffling behind him, reaching for the lube. Crowley swallowed thickly as he waited, the moment stretching. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been buggered, couldn’t remember anything that wasn’t Aziraphale. The world had contracted into that moment, into the feeling of Aziraphale’s cock nudging at his entrance, of Aziraphale’s firm hand on his hip.

Crowley felt the pressure grow, steady but inexorable, as Aziraphale’s thick cockhead breached him. Aziraphale felt impossibly huge, wide enough to split him in half, but Crowley had been prepared so thoroughly that it started to sting only after the flared head was already halfway inside. Crowley groaned, deep and breathless, as he felt the muscles being forced to give way, something that wasn’t really pleasure and wasn’t really pain swirling in his bloodstream. It was something way more primal, like a deep, toothy satisfaction at being filled to the brim.

They both gasped as Aziraphale’s thick cockhead popped inside. But Aziraphale’s pace gave no sign of speeding up, and Crowley was ready to push back and take matters in his own hand when he felt Aziraphale grasp his sides with biting, almost vicious strength.

“I don’t think so, my dear,” Aziraphale purred, effectively pinning Crowley in place as he kept the steady slide of his cock at a maddeningly slow pace. Crowley remembered his fantasies about Aziraphale shoving him firmly into the mattress and having his way with him, and thought vaguely that he hadn’t fallen too far from the mark, as Aziraphale dug his fingers into Crowley’s hips with bruising force while sinking all the way in.

He felt so huge, like that, big enough to carve a place inside Crowley that no one else would ever be able to fill up again. Crowley keened at the sensation, clenching his muscles experimentally around the girth of him as Aziraphale gave him a moment to adjust. Aziraphale’s echoing grunt felt impossibly satisfying, and Crowley grinned to himself as he ground his hips against Aziraphale’s groin.

“What a demanding boy you are,” Aziraphale grunted, before pulling out slightly and pushing back in. Crowley felt the silky slide of it, felt the punch of Aziraphale’s cockhead pulling back and then slamming home. “Good thing I like spoiling you.”

Something cracked a little under Crowley’s skin at the words, at the idea of being _spoiled_. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had called him back, even less found the will and the patience to spoil him in any way. He gripped the sheets so hard he felt the strain in his knuckles, and keened, deep and almost pained, as Aziraphale pulled back again and with the same torturing slow pace pushed inside.

Aziraphale’s steady rhythm didn’t change, as minutes unfurled like ribbons. He kept buggering Crowley with the same sedate pace, but deep, and thorough, as though he didn’t want Crowley to miss even one single slide of Aziraphale’s searing flesh inside of him. And it didn’t matter how much Crowley squirmed–the grip of Aziraphale’s strong, wide hands on Crowley’s hips was unyielding, keeping him exactly where Aziraphale wanted him, obedient and pliant and pinned like a butterfly on display. Crowley could do nothing but take it, mind lingering on the feeling of being opened, penetrated, handled like a doll. It sparked something low in his spine, something between a flicker and a shiver, and soon Crowley was down to his elbows, balanced on spread knees with his arse in the air, fisting the beddings and sucking in shuddering gasps against the coarse texture of the towel. His erection had gone down a bit more at the initial penetration, but he was hard again now, and aching.

“You give yourself over so beautifully, my dear,” Aziraphale cooed, sounding deeply pleased and curiously breathless, as his hips picked up a more demanding pace. Crowley groaned at the deep, pointed thrusts, feeling his hard cock slap against his belly at the quickened rhythm. Aziraphale’s words were pooling like gasoline in his brain, spreading into his flesh like wildfire. His heart was thundering in his chest, sweat beading on his back, muscles aching, skin screaming where it rubbed against Aziraphale’s naked body. He felt surrounded in a way that was both suffocating and deeply soothing, nailed by the thick length of Aziraphale hammering inside of him.

“I knew you’d be gorgeous like this, all spread out for me, but there are really no words to describe what you look like, _feel_ like,” Aziraphale carried on, in a broken, panting voice. He let go of Crowley’s hips to trace a hand down his back, lower and lower, skimming his spine like a current. “So deliciously, irresistibly _vulnerable_.”

Aziraphale’s rumbling words punched a shuddering keen out of Crowley’s chest, which turned into a breathless gasp when Aziraphale’s palm closed around his nape, hard and proprietary, pinning him between Aziraphale’s hand and his cock. Crowley felt the weight of him like a touch, as Aziraphale moulded his front against Crowley’s back, warm and sturdy, an immovable object pressing him down. Aziraphale’s breath was tickling the bony space between his shoulder blades, warm and choppy, like a stormy sea.

Crowley felt caged by his body, besieged from every side, but he tried his best to move with him, meeting his snapping thrusts halfway. Sweat was pooling in the hollow of his back, making the slide of Aziraphale’s naked skin against his own both frictionless and sticky, as the grinding of Aziraphale’s hips became hard, punishing, impossibly deep.

“_Angel_,” Crowley gasped, trying to convey what he needed without having to reach for words that seemed entirely too far away now. The new angle had Aziraphale pummelling down on his prostate, the pleasure of it swirling and electric and almost too intense to be entirely pleasurable, and his cock was aching between his legs. He could hear nothing but the slap of Aziraphale’s balls against his arse and their panting breaths, animal sounds complimenting the silence and disturbed only by the occasional deep groan and shuddering whine.

Luckily for him, Aziraphale seemed to be as attuned to Crowley’s internal monologue as he’d always been. As the hold on Crowley’s nape tightened, pushing him down, Aziraphale’s other hand slipped under Crowley’s belly, taking hold of his aching cock. Crowley wailed at the feeling, relief washing over him like the tide. He didn’t think he had enough coordination left in his entire body to let go of the coverlets he was holding onto for dear life, even less to reach for his cock. But he didn’t need to.

Aziraphale’s steady, hard hammering didn’t even slow down as he pinched gently the head of Crowley’s cock, making him _scream_, and then wrapped his hand around the straining length. A few pointed tugs, a handful of relentless thrusts against his prostate, and then Crowley was hurtling and tumbling over the peak, coming in a wordless gasp all over the towel. The pleasure hit him like a wave, drowning and sizzling, making him lose for a moment all perception of his physical body beyond the white noise of his thundering orgasm.

Aziraphale kept going until every last drop of Crowley’s pleasure had been yanked out of him, then he pulled out carefully, not one second too soon before oversensitivity kicked in. Crowley was still gasping into the beddings when Aziraphale very gently helped him to roll over, away from the messy towel. Crowley allowed Aziraphale to manhandle him like a doll, lowering him on clean sheets and caressing his face, his chest, while Crowley shuddered his way down his high and slowly became aware of his surroundings. He felt boneless, exhausted in a way that was all-encompassing, his head hazy and his muscles aching. He opened eyes he didn’t remember to have closed to take in the shape of Aziraphale, kneeling between his spread legs with the darkest eyes he’d ever seen, pointed straight at his face.

“My dear boy,” he murmured, with a taut, gravelly voice, “would it be all right if I finished on your belly?”

Crowley looked down, taking in the straining shape of Aziraphale’s dark cock, covered in latex and shining with lube. He could do nothing more than nod, his mind struggling to get his body back under control.

“Yes, of course. Yes.”

Aziraphale’s only answer was a deep groan, as he yanked off the condom and hunched over, slamming a hand onto the mattress by Crowley’s hip to hold his weight as he furiously pulled at his cock. His face was red with exertion, sweat beading on his cheeks, along his hairline. The splash of colour spread down his chest, making the curly hairs between his nipples stand out, looking even whiter against the blushing skin. His cock looked huge and painfully hard, and it took Aziraphale barely a handful of strokes before he was coming all over Crowley’s belly and chest with a rumbling groan. Aziraphale kept pulling at it until even the last drops of his orgasm were clinging to Crowley’s skin, and then he was bracing his weight on both hands, looming over Crowley’s supine form and swallowing oxygen in shallow gasps.

Crowley raised a tentative hand, sinking his fingers in Aziraphale’s curly hair, and was rewarded with a winded smile.

“Give me a minute, dearest, and then I’ll take care of you,” Aziraphale gasped, turning his head to kiss the palm of Crowley’s hand.

Crowley shrugged. His hazy mind was slowly getting back some measure of control over his aching body, and there was a perfectly functional towel within grasp.

“I can do it myself, angel, don’t worry about it...”

“_No_,” Aziraphale interrupted him, quick and almost harsh. Crowley stilled, a little taken aback, and Aziraphale took a deep breath. His voice was back to a more familiar murmur, as he spoke again. “Please, let me.”

Crowley hesitated, then shrugged again.

“Sure, yes.”

Aziraphale sighed, looking away, and then he was laboriously pushing back to sit on his hunches. The skin was gradually loosening over his softening cock, foreskin slowly encroaching on the flared head, but the deep blush was still lingering on his chest, his face. A small smile quirked his lips, as he took in Crowley’s naked body.

“My gorgeous darling,” Aziraphale whispered, with some sort of aching, almost harsh tenderness.

Crowley fought the instinct to squirm under that heavy gaze, the weight of the moment making be stared at somewhat unnerving. He looked away, unable to bear the pressure of those eyes, and a moment later Aziraphale was picking up the dirty towel and climbing off the bed.

Crowley closed his eyes and listened to the sound of steps and running water, soft and soothing, as his body cooled down and his breath normalised. He felt as though he’d just run a marathon, heart struggling to slow down and muscles aching, but there was a deep, lazy satisfaction cursing through his body, something that made his bones melt into the mattress and calmed the buzzing of his unruly mind. He felt sated, quiet and idle. He felt, for a lack of a better word, content. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt quite that way.

He squinted an eye open, as he felt the mattress dip under the weight of Aziraphale’s body. He was holding a wet washcloth in his hand, and there was a delicate sort of smile on his face.

“Don’t worry, dear, I used hot water to wet the towel,” Aziraphale reassured him with obvious amusement, as Crowley opened the other eye as well to give a critical look at the damp washcloth. He felt so warm and satisfied, the last thing he wanted was the shock of cold water against his cooling skin.

Crowley grumbled his wholehearted endorsement to that wonderful idea, but Aziraphale was still hesitating. Crowley was about to ask what was wrong, when Aziraphale, instead of rubbing the cooling, itching come off his belly, gently urged him to spread his bent legs wider and pressed the warm, damp cloth between his arsecheeks.

Crowley almost jumped out of his skin at the touch. Lube usually dried out on its own, however tacky it felt against the skin, and no one had really taken the time to clean him up down there before, nor had he ever done that to any of his dalliances. It felt shockingly, violently intimate. And the sting of the coarse cloth punched a hiss out of his lips.

“Oh?” Aziraphale hummed, because obviously, _obviously_ he would notice. “What’s wrong, dear? Have I hurt you?”

He seemed genuinely concerned, a deep frown burrowing his forehead. Crowley squirmed, looking away. He felt a little too unbalanced right now for that sort of conversation, or any sort of conversation, really. And Aziraphale’s hand on his inner thigh, keeping him spread open for his probing gaze, was making his stomach churn in a way he wasn’t too sure he liked.

“’s nothing, angel,” he grumbled. “Told you. ‘s been a while.”

Aziraphale hummed. Crowley threw him a glance from the corner of his eye. He looked lost in thought, like he always did when he was deliberating something. Then, with a blush staining his cheeks, Aziraphale shuffled a bit closer.

“Will you let me check?”

The breath left Crowley’s lungs as though someone had punched it out of them. He stared at Aziraphale with huge eyes. He didn’t think anyone had ever offered him to do _that_. It felt oddly intimate, more than being fingered, more than being buggered, even more than being eaten out. The power of it broke his skin like a stab.

Crowley felt his brows drawn up in a frown, but reluctantly agreed.

“Alright.”

The blush deepened on Aziraphale’s face, as he bent down to spread Crowley’s arse with his thumbs, exposing his hole. Crowley looked away, a wave of embarrassment washing over him, making him squirm. But Aziraphale had got his permission, and he wouldn’t budge. It seemed to take him ages to do whatever it was he was doing down there, and Crowley realised with a start that there was something swirling in the pit of his stomach, something akin to arousal. He had no idea whatever that business was about, but it was sexual. It was turning him on. And as Aziraphale straightened up, red-faced and with a look of blatant hunger twinkling in his dark eyes, Crowley realised that it was turning Aziraphale on, too.

“It’s a bit red and puffy, but no tearing,” he declared, gently pressing his thumb against Crowley’s aching hole. It felt oddly comforting, and atrociously intimate, and painfully erotic. Crowley had no experience and no clue on how to interpret those conflicting sensory inputs, and tried his best not to wriggle under Aziraphale’s delicate touch, confused and overwhelmed. “You’ll be right as rain in no time, darling.”

Crowley had no idea how he was supposed to answer to that, but luckily Aziraphale didn’t expect him to. He used the now unfortunately cold washcloth to rub the cool come off Crowley’s skin, until he was scrubbed pink and clean. Then Aziraphale went to the bathroom to get ready for bed, and Crowley recovered his bag from the living room to do the same. He debated for a moment whether to go to sleep stark naked or put something on, but when he saw Aziraphale coming out of the bathroom in his tartan pyjamas he decided a bit begrudgingly to follow his lead. He wasn’t sure Aziraphale would be all right with Crowley clinging naked to him, or clinging to him in general, and he could survive a night in boxers and vest. He didn’t know the ground he was treading well enough to dare more than baby steps.

Aziraphale gifted him with a soft smile when Crowley slipped under the covers, and turned off the lights before curling closer. Crowley tentatively sank a hand in his hair, and Aziraphale shuffled near enough to tuck his head under Crowley’s chin. Crowley breathed deeply at the feeling of Aziraphale’s curls against his jaw, and held him in a loose embrace. His sleepwear smelt like washing powder, but Crowley could detect the scent of his skin underneath, warm and comforting. Aziraphale threw an arm around Crowley’s thin waist, the other hand playing idly with the fuzz on his chest framed by the deep cut of his black vest.

“I’ll try to be quiet tomorrow morning, let you sleep,” Crowley murmured in Aziraphale’s hair. Aziraphale had the day off, since he would be working during the weekend, but Crowley had to get up at seven to be at work in time.

“Hmm,” Aziraphale hummed. “Don’t sneak off without giving me a kiss, though. I insist.”

It was such a harmless sentence, and yet it collided with bruising strength against Crowley’s chest. It felt domestic in a way that made Crowley want to jump out of the window and at the same time curl around Aziraphale until their skins melted together. It pricked his flesh and splintered in his bones, jagged fragments scattering in his body like flashes of light.

Crowley felt the breath catch in his throat, his voice coming out raw and gravelly, painfully honest.

“Alright.”

Their breaths rustled in the silence for a long while, quiet and soothing, like the weight of Aziraphale in his arms. It felt as though Crowley had never experienced silence before, only a smudged carbon copy of crumbling hush.

Crowley had thought Aziraphale was already dead to the world, when he heard the low rumble of his voice.

“Crowley?”

He was half-asleep, a boneless chunk of flesh, relaxed and sated and deeply content. He’d come twice in little less than four hours and felt like his blood was trickling in his veins instead of flowing, his heavy body floating in a cloud of nothingness.

“Hmm?”

Another silence. A brittle one. It pulled at Crowley’s skin, dragging him back to an uneasy alertness.

“If...” A pause, as though Aziraphale was gathering the strength to say something unpleasant. “If you don’t like something I do, will you tell me?”

Crowley frowned. He had no idea where that was coming from, but he didn’t like the glassy fragility vibrating just under the surface. If Aziraphale was talking about sex, Crowley thought he’d been pretty clear in his appreciation, especially since he couldn’t remember the last time he’d come twice in such a short time and hard enough to fear for an actual stroke. If he wasn’t, Crowley had no idea what he was on about.

“I’m not sure what you mean, angel,” he answered, a little warily.

Aziraphale took a deep breath.

“If I do something that makes you uncomfortable. In bed, or... or outside. Will you tell me?”

Crowley could hear the bristling echoes of things not said underneath the words, but it wasn’t the right time to pry answers out of Aziraphale. He’d learnt that there were things that Aziraphale would tell him only when he was ready, and it was no good for anyone to try and yank them out before the right time had come. So he sighed and kissed the crown of Aziraphale’s head, trying to convey some measure of comfort.

(Some measure of _affection_.)

“Yeah. Of course.”

Aziraphale exhaled heavily against his chest, in a choppy, swirling draught, and Crowley kept his lips pressed against those blond curls until they both fell asleep.

* * *

Crowley woke up to the feeling of a warm body pressed tightly against his own, and a heavy head nested rather firmly against his chest. He blinked up to an unfamiliar ceiling, the white paint old enough to have begun its transition into pale grey and cracked in places. He’d moved during the night, ending up on his back, with Aziraphale wound up tight around him, his hand curled possessively around Crowley’s flank.

Crowley was a cuddler, which was usually a very uncomfortable experience for everyone involved, but from the way Aziraphale’s leg was pinning Crowley down, he seemed just as enthusiastic about physical contact as Crowley was. It warmed something in him, knowing that for once in his life he wasn’t going to be the odd, clingy one.

The alarm on his phone chimed again, reminding him why he’d woken up in the first place, instead of carrying on sleeping in the tight nest of blankets he’d carved for himself during the night. Aziraphale’s body felt impossibly good against his own, solid and sleep-warm and sweetly yielding in places, a grounding weight, comforting in a way that had no right to be. Crowley groaned under his breath, reaching for his phone and turning off the shrill sound. Aziraphale mumbled something against his chest, his hand gripping Crowley’s flank with almost bruising force.

“Sorry, angel,” he murmured against the blond curls. “Time to go.”

He tried to wriggle away, but Aziraphale didn’t seem to appreciate the attempt. He curled up even tighter around Crowley, keeping him in place with an easy strength that sent a tendril of electric heat down Crowley’s spine.

“No,” he growled. “Stay.”

Crowley chuckled, amused and desperately fond. It felt oddly familiar, in a way that it shouldn’t, after having slept together only a couple of times. It felt _warm_, spreading inside his chilled flesh like a heat wave.

“Have to,” Crowley murmured, kissing Aziraphale’s hair. The smell of his skin was stronger there, sweet and intoxicating. “Queen and country won’t wait for me.”

“Patriotism before eight in the morning is in extreme bad taste,” Aziraphale grumbled, which was entirely too articulate for a man who was half asleep.

Crowley laughed out loud at that, and Aziraphale, probably disturbed by the noise, finally let him go and rolled away. Crowley kissed the crown of his head again, getting a grumble for his trouble, then slipped out of the warm bed.

The chill of the room hit him with the same gentleness of a hammer, raising goosebumps on his arms and giving a merciless death blow to the valiant effort at a morning erection his spent cock had been trying with very little results to put. Crowley shivered at the cold wooden floor under the soles of his bare feet, but he bravely found his way to the bathroom, instead of crawling back to the welcoming warmth of Aziraphale’s embrace.

It always felt strange, waking up in someone else’s house. It was a feeling Crowley had never really enjoyed. He’d lived alone for too long, after a childhood spent owning absolutely nothing, not even personal space, to appreciate occupying someone else’s. He always felt like an intruder, stepping on eggshells. He liked being in his own house, abiding to his own rules, knowing where everything was. Everything else felt like borrowed space, and while he didn’t necessarily pay any mind to that specific sentiment when he was tumbling through someone’s door with his hands under their clothes, it was difficult to keep it at bay in the morning, when he woke up hungover and cranky after an uneasy night. He wasn’t hungover now, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept so well with someone else, but he was still the intruder, treading foreign ground.

There was a pile of fresh towels in the bathroom, carefully folded over a stool, and Crowley smiled a little to himself as he climbed into the tub and took a quick shower. He hadn’t asked permission to Aziraphale to use his stuff, but he hoped he wouldn’t mind, as he washed his sweaty skin with Aziraphale’s shower gel and perfunctorily dried himself off with one of his clean towels. He felt better after a shower, fresh and clean and a bit more clear-headed. He was aching a little, the sort of ache that came with a thorough shag, and Crowley relished the sting as he climbed out of the tub. He tossed the towel in the hamper and went back to the living room to collect his discharged clothes from the night before. He’d never really got around to pick them up, though he had to admit that they lent some stylish black to the old-fashioned furniture and blended quite well with the clutter. It felt a bit strange and a bit comforting to see something so glaringly his scattered all over Aziraphale’s floor, and Crowley was in a pretty odd good mood as he sauntered back to the bedroom.

Aziraphale was still curled up under his plush duvet, and Crowley was smiling like the old fool that he was as he fished for clean clothes from his travel bag and got dressed. He hadn’t been exactly surprised to find his neck and shoulders covered in pale hickeys and fading bite marks. They were all light enough to be gone by the end of the day, but the purple bruise on the juncture between his neck and shoulder, the one Aziraphale had purposely deepened, would stay for a while. Crowley couldn’t say that he minded. He wondered when he would see Aziraphale again, and chided his spineless self for wondering, instead of actually finding the guts to ask him. It couldn’t be very difficult, could it? And yet he kept shying away from that conversation, no matter how harshly he rebuked himself for being a coward.

He was all dressed up and ready to go, and yet he lingered, standing in the room and listening to the steady breathing of Aziraphale, like a proper creep. Although Crowley usually slept like the dead, deaf to an entire army band blowing trumpets under his window, he had his share of uneasy nights during their last hellish weekend, and he’d already noticed that Aziraphale snored lightly in his slumber. He found it hopelessly endearing.

He sighed, eventually deciding that he really needed to get a move, if he wanted to get to work in time. But he had a promise to keep, so he slung the travel bag with his dirty clothes over his shoulder and approached the bed in a squeaking of snakeskin boots on ancient woodwork, kissing Aziraphale’s forehead.

“I’m going, angel.”

Aziraphale grumbled something, rubbing his face against the pillow, before rolling onto his back and blinking up at him with sleepy eyes. Crowley couldn’t help but bend over and place a small kiss on his lips. Aziraphale looked so different here, in his flat, sleepy and relaxed and completely devoid of that restless energy he’d seemed to spill like an overfilled pitcher while they were away. He looked content. And the soft smile Crowley got for an answer could have lit up the whole room.

“Hmm,” Aziraphale hummed, dragging a hand out of the angry nest of covers to stroke Crowley’s chest. “Can I call you later? Want to see you again, but... I’m too sleepy to think, right now.”

Crowley felt something heavy and hot unravel in his chest, like a tight knot of misery finally unspooling.

“Of course, angel.”

“Good,” Aziraphale murmured, before rolling onto his other side and hiding his face under the covers. Crowley had kept the lights off, but there was just enough sunshine filtering through the curtains to make moving between the hazardous piles of books a feasible enterprise, and apparently to disturb Aziraphale’s delicate sensibilities. “Have a good day at work, my dear.”

Crowley chuckled, a sound almost quivering, almost wet.

“You too, angel.”

He picked his way through the cluttered flat as noiselessly as he could, and closed the door as he went.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely people!  
My muse came back with a vengeance, luckily enough, and I submit for your entertainment another monster of a chapter <3  
Before we start, please considered leaving [uponwhatgrounds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uponwhatgrounds/pseuds/uponwhatgrounds) some love for another stunning [piece of art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23526847). I have no words left to thank the artist for gifting me with so many wonderful illustrations. Thank you, truly, from the bottom of my heart.  
And many thanks to all the wonderful people who left a comment or kudos during these trying times. I appreciated every single one of them.  
Enjoy the chapter, and happy Easter!

They saw each other again three days later, straight after Aziraphale’s shift on Sunday. He had to work through the weekend, and they’d agreed to meet for a late cup of coffee at one of Aziraphale’s ‘lovely shops’, which were starting to be a little too many for Crowley to keep count.

Crowley had wholeheartedly supported that plan. He really enjoyed their fancy meals, but there was only so much dining out his wages could cover, and he hated the idea of bringing that up. They weren’t really there yet, and Crowley had the nagging suspicion that Aziraphale would answer to that quandary by simply paying everything himself. That was unacceptable, besides all sorts of uncomfortable. Crowley had lived off the charity of others for too long to tolerate the idea of someone else paying for him. But one dinner per week wasn’t too difficult to pull off, and he could wriggle himself out of that specific problem by simply offering an alternative, if the occasion called for it. It wasn’t too difficult.

For now, they had an evening planned in some coffee shop, which suited Crowley just fine. He’d offered to come and pick Aziraphale up from work, and Aziraphale had accepted with some sort of shy delight on the phone, before asking Crowley to spend the night again. Crowley had agreed to it so quickly he’d barely had the time to feel embarrassed at his own eagerness. But Aziraphale’s obvious pleasure at his answer had swept everything away, until only some sort of diaphanous, sprawling peace had remained.

That delicate mood had stayed with him during the next few days, like a fading footprint pressed onto his skin. He’d felt more centred, his everlasting low-level restlessness somehow dulled in the background. He’d slept better than usual, the certainty that he’d be seeing Aziraphale soon, in a fixed amount of time, somehow soothing.

It felt... odd. But he had no complaints. It was pleasant, having that steady buzz under his skin somehow muted. He’d watered his plants and carried out much-needed chores and lazed about in a way that didn’t usually come so readily to him.

That said, Sunday evening didn’t arrive one minute too soon. He’d felt the thrill of seeing Aziraphale again growing steadily under his skin throughout the afternoon, and changed his outfit more times than what was strictly necessary before finally deciding for a grey henley, black jeans and combat boots, which was pretty much his standard attire. The hickey Aziraphale had left on his neck was glaringly obvious with the low cut of his shirt, and Crowley used a loose black scarf to cover it up. The meagre little thing tried its best, but it wasn’t really thick enough to do a particularly good job, and the shadowy edges of the fading bruise kept peeking out every time Crowley moved his head.

Crowley had smirked at his reflection with obvious satisfaction. He was starting to realise that Aziraphale liked a bit of tension, a bit of playing on the side, and Crowley had bravely decided to follow his worst instincts, this time, and give Aziraphale what he wanted. Crowley was no good with that entire dating business, but teasing was right up his alley. Aziraphale seemed to like the idea of leaving marks on Crowley just as much as Crowley liked finding them dotting his skin in the mirror, and he was curious to know exactly how distracting he could manage to be.

(Or which sort of power he could hold over Aziraphale, if push came to shove and he had to fight to keep the man’s attention. But he had no intention of going there, for now. That careful happiness was too fragile to survive treading through those dark places.)

So Crowley had made up his travel bag, making sure to pack yet another black turtleneck for the following day, donned his sunglasses and taken his Bentley for a spin, before heading to Aziraphale’s library.

The building was dark and already deserted when he got there, the few employees left on the premises slowly trickling out. Crowley parked his Bentley somewhat haphazardly close to the pavement, and climbed out of the leather seat to lean his crossed arms onto the roof. He’d cleaned it up thoroughly the day before, and the pitch-black metal of the body shone even in the dim lighting of the street. The sky was already dark, but clear enough that Crowley could make out some stars, and the wind biting. He huffed a breath in the cool air, and was taken aback when it didn’t come out in a small cloud. He shouldn’t have been so surprised, though. He’d never been very good at tolerating low temperatures, and he always seemed to perceive a few degrees less than what every app on his phone swore on God almighty and each and every one of his saints were actually there.

He was close to shivering when Aziraphale finally came out of the library, but the warm smile he got for his trouble hit him like a heat wave, making it all worth it. Crowley watched Aziraphale hurry towards him with something close to an aching sort of fondness, as though the spread of its encroaching roots hurt a little as they anchored that feeling into place.

“Good evening, my dear,” Aziraphale said, slowing down as he approached the Bentley. The weather was frigid enough to have forced him to button up his woollen coat all the way to his throat, kept warm by a thick tartan scarf wound twice around his neck and tucked neatly into his collar. He was clutching a worn leather satchel to his side as though it contained every single treasure known to man, which probably meant he’d stashed away a book or two in there.

“Angel,” Crowley answered, tilting his head a little in greeting. Aziraphale’s smile was warm and painfully tender as he looked at him, and Crowley almost felt the phantom touch of Aziraphale’s lips on his cheek. He cleared his throat, trying to break the silence and dispel the moment. “Shall we?”

Aziraphale’s smile turned even brighter at that.

“Of course, I’ve been looking forward to this the entire day!” Aziraphale happily chattered, as he opened the door of the Bentley and climbed into the car. Crowley followed suit. “I think you’ll like this place, it’s an _American_ café, with that quaint drive-in sort of feeling. It even has _guitars_ hanging from the walls, and the owner wears a _cowboy hat_!”

Aziraphale tittered a little as he said that, as though he found the very American spirit of the place nothing short of titillating. Crowley had never been to America, but he doubted that whoever thought that place up had a much better understanding of the old colonies across the pond than he did.

“They have brewed coffee there, so you won’t feel too much of a stranger,” Aziraphale gleefully went on, “and those towering cheeseburgers young people seem to like so much these days, but _good_, with high-quality meat, not that unhealthy stuff you find in those terrible fast foods. Have you already eaten, dear?”

Crowley was listening with half an ear to Aziraphale’s excited chattering, as he pulled into traffic and thought of a car park in walking distance from both the café and Aziraphale’s flat. He had a few alternatives that could work out pretty nicely, and was just about to take a shortcut to his best option when he felt Aziraphale’s hand settle gently but firmly on his thigh, slipping between his legs.

He didn’t run straight into a lorry, but it was a close thing.

“Are you listening to me, darling?” Aziraphale purred, oddly unfazed about that narrowly escaped death for a man who liked to grumble and complain and occasionally yell when Crowley was behind the wheel and there was nothing else going on. His nervousness apparently didn’t extend to situations in which he was squeezing Crowley’s inner thigh, high enough that his little finger was mere inches from Crowley’s cock.

“Er. Ngh,” Crowley muttered, because he was trying to avoid killing them both while his cock was doing its best to join the conversation, and there were only so many directions his blood could flow without breaking several biological laws. “Yeah, I’ve got something already.”

Aziraphale hummed under his breath, something close to disappointment flitting quickly through his face before his usual warm smile was back in place.

“I did say to meet after dinner, after all,” he mused, absentmindedly stroking Crowley’s thigh with his thumb. Crowley felt the touch even through the thick layer of his jeans, subtle and electrifying. “Oh, well. There is always dessert, and I’ve heard their new blueberry cheesecake is nothing short of _divine_.” A wicked smile. “I know you don’t really like sweets, but I wouldn’t mind sharing some of mine.”

Crowley knew without needing to be told that Aziraphale meant to feed him some cheesecake in that oddly pointed way he seemed to charge the gesture with, as though it meant something that Crowley couldn’t quite grasp, and felt a thick wave of heat swarm over him from his toes to his cheeks. Combined with the steady stroking of Aziraphale’s hand up and down his thigh, he decided to cut himself some slack instead of berating his riotous body for the flush quickly rising from his chest to his ears, but just this once. It’d better not become a regular occurrence.

Crowley’s half-hard cock was pressing a bit uncomfortably against his tight jeans when he parked the Bentley, but Aziraphale looked maddeningly unruffled as he climbed off his seat and smoothed down his coat. Crowley followed with considerably less grace, and was rewarded with a smile that was entirely too innocent to be convincing. They’d slept together only twice so far (thrice, if that sad, botched attempt at the Fell mansion was to be taken into account), but Crowley would believe that Aziraphale had no idea about the effects of his touch the day the BBC announced that a cruise ship had landed on Atlantis. He threw Aziraphale a nasty glare, to which Aziraphale answered with a pointed sniffle and a gentle and unnecessary push of his old-fashioned glasses up his nose.

“Well, dear,” he said eventually, with that fussy, prim voice of his. “We’d better get going.”

Crowley scoffed, and then laughed, loud and unrestrained. Aziraphale smirked in reply, and led Crowley up the stairs of the underground parking lot and into the bustling streets of Soho, busy as ever despite the chill November air. The café turned out to be a rather unsubtle shop with a flashy thunderbolt as a signboard, and which in a bout of divine inspiration had been named _Route 66_. They were nailing every possible stereotype, Crowley had to hand it to them.

The inside looked plucked straight from _Grease_, with blazing-hot red counters made in obviously cheap plastic and stools that looked pretty much as comfortable as balancing one’s arse on a cane. It was quite full, too, but Aziraphale managed through some strange trick of his unfailing charm to get them a somewhat private boot. Crowley had absolutely no idea how he always managed to do that without turning to murder.

Aziraphale looked both hilariously and captivatingly out of place in those surroundings, but he didn’t seem to realise that in the slightest. He tidily folded his scarf and coat over the back of his chair in a flash of gold from the chain of his stopwatch, and sat down to peruse the menu. Crowley was smiling to himself as he did the same, but couldn’t help a disgruntled mumble at the feeling of hard plastic under his arse. At least he was sitting on a chair, with a proper back, which was still a lot better than those horrible stools. Aziraphale caught his grumble, as he always did, and peered at him from over the cheap menu.

“Still aching?” he asked, a fleck of concern spiking that suddenly charged, low voice. Crowley eyed him a little confusedly, and Aziraphale quickly added: “After our... activities.”

Oh. Well.

“’m fine, angel,” Crowley grunted in reply, because although he wasn’t really aching anymore, he’d definitely felt it the morning after. Every time he’d shifted he’d felt the phantom sting of Aziraphale’s cock pressing deep inside of him, and had to fight both the temptation of replaying the memories of their evening in his mind and the treacherous twitching of his greedy cock. He hadn’t really relished the thought of sporting an erection at work, especially when Anathema and her scarily perceiving eyes were an ever-present threat.

He had absolutely no intention of telling Aziraphale any of that. The twinkle in those eyes looked dangerous enough as it was.

“Hmm,” Aziraphale hummed, going back to the menu. “Perhaps I should really put my back into it, next time.”

Crowley almost choked on air, and threw Aziraphale his filthiest look. Aziraphale didn’t even have the grace of looking suitably impressed.

“I think I’ll get the blueberry cheesecake and an Earl Grey,” he mused, clearly not registering in the slightest the irony of ordering something so quintessentially British in a place that was so aggressively American. It wasn’t like the old colonies had a row with their motherland over some spilled tea, after all. “What about you, my dear? It’s a bit late. Would you still like a coffee?”

“It’s never too late for coffee,” Crowley snorted. It wasn’t even seven o’clock, and he swallowed so much of the stuff that his body barely registered a new intake of caffeine by now. “A cup will do.”

Aziraphale tutted, a little displeased, but called over a waiter to put in their order. He was barely halfway through with his usual lengthy request when he stuttered, wind knocked neatly out of his sails as his voice died off. Crowley, who had turned his head to watch the busy floor, shifted his gaze back to him, and found Aziraphale busy staring with wide eyes at something on his neck. Crowley brought reflexively a hand to the spot, almost asking what was wrong, before remembering the bruise. Moving his head about had obviously displaced the scarf, revealing the slowly fading hickey.

Crowley smirked, casually tugging at his scarf to show some more bruised skin. He could play that game too, and was extremely pleased when Aziraphale’s steady gaze didn’t budge from the mark he’d left on Crowley’s neck. Crowley had spent the last three days thinking over and over at the sex they’d had, idly stroking those memories (and, during one glorious evening spent on his couch, his cock as well) until they’d shone with use. He couldn’t remember the last time sleeping with someone had felt so good, and couldn’t help but wonder if Aziraphale had been thinking about it, too.

“Sir?” the waiter prompted him, when Aziraphale failed to finish his order. The poor lad seemed to be aware of the charged moment, and looked about as happy about intruding upon it as he would have been about dipping his toes in lava.

Aziraphale blinked, coughed into his fist with a very pointed glare at Crowley and then lifted his chin, gifting the waiter with his most charming smile.

“Apologies, I seem to have forgotten myself for a moment,” he chirped, before going back to his order. The waiter jotted down the last few lines and then scampered off, leaving Aziraphale to the very serious business of staring Crowley down.

Crowley threw him a lazy smile, playing with his scarf.

“Got distracted over there, angel?” he purred, smirking widely as Aziraphale’s eyes fell once again on the patch of bruised skin on his neck.

Aziraphale scoffed.

“That was quite cheeky behaviour, you know,” he huffed, but something dark was twinkling in his eyes. “Maybe I ought to do something about it.”

The words, the tone they’d been spoken with, sent a thrill down Crowley’s spine. He felt once again as though they were having a conversation in a code to which Crowley was only partially privy.

“Oh? Like what?” he asked, goosebumps pebbling the skin of his arms.

Aziraphale held the stare for a moment longer, dark eyes open wide and unblinking, before shifting his gaze. The moment seemed to shatter between them, and Crowley felt the release of tension like a snapped rope.

“Reassuring you, perhaps,” Aziraphale answered, with such a tenderness in his smile that Crowley felt its warmth in his fingertips. “If that was a ploy to get my attention, I can assure you that you have it, utterly and completely. You don’t need games.”

It felt... oddly comforting to hear, and a bit condescending, and it stung like scalding water sprinkled on naked skin. Crowley sucked a breath and looked away, pushing it out in a scoff.

“That’s not... I, well, that’s... that’s...”

His painfully embarrassing stuttering was put to an end by Aziraphale, who had decided once again to save him from his misery.

“That does not mean I don’t like a bit of playing,” he purred, confirming Crowley’s suspicions with a sharp sort of smile. “Though it might be a bit too soon, yet.”

Crowley was about to protest that it was _not_, very emphatically and most assuredly, too soon for playing, whatever that meant, when the waiter came back with their drinks. Aziraphale thanked him sweetly, and by the time he was sniffing with idle pleasure at the bergamot scent of his Earl Grey, the mood had shifted enough that Crowley thought it best to drop the topic. He had the entire night ahead of him to pick it up again.

They chattered a bit about work, after that. Aziraphale would have the following weekend free, and Crowley felt something warm and liquid pool in his belly as Aziraphale asked him, bashfully and a bit haltingly, whether he’d like to spend the night the next Friday.

“I know that’s planning a bit far ahead,” Aziraphale carried on, looking rather fixedly at the tabletop, “but I thought about it, and I’d love to have a lazy Saturday morning with you, if you are amenable. And if you have the time, of course.” His fingers were playing havoc on the corner of his napkin, one pull away from shredding the poor thing into pieces. “I know I’m being a bit greedy, we haven’t even got to the end of this evening yet, but, well, I... it would make me happy. And so I thought to ask. In case it would make you happy, too.”

There was a fetching blush on Aziraphale’s cheeks, but the feeling behind it had teeth. There was nothing soft in the way Aziraphale was tying himself in knots over something so simple, and it was a bit tragic and a bit pitiful how well Crowley could understand him. He reached out, covering Aziraphale’s hand with his palm, and putting a merciful end to the torture endured by Aziraphale’s innocent napkin.

“It would,” Crowley blurted out, then went on, a bit haltingly, “make me happy, it is. Yes. I would love to.”

One day, he would even find the guts to ask him, too. For now, he simply feasted on Aziraphale’s blinding smile, his posture loosening up with almost painfully intensity as Aziraphale let out a small sigh, full of ill-repressed relief.

(He also feasted on the idea of a slow Saturday morning, whatever it meant. He felt its tendrils embedding deep into his skin, like needles, piercing the flesh underneath until its venom reached his bloodstream, spreading as quickly as a disease.)

“Well. That’s settled, then,” Aziraphale replied, his cheerfulness sounding just the barest hint of forced. Crowley stroked the back of Aziraphale’s hand with his thumb, trying to convey a measure of calm, and Aziraphale slowly relaxed under the gentle touch.

The return of the waiter with Aziraphale’s cheesecake shattered the moment again, but Crowley didn’t mind the release of the tension, this time. He disliked that gossamer curtain of well-concealed misery that sometimes came fluttering down on Aziraphale’s normally cheerful features, and he was happy to see that easy smile bloom once again on his soft lips as Aziraphale took in with obvious delight the slice of cake that was placed in front of him.

Crowley had thought Aziraphale would barely notice that he took his hand away, but those blue eyes shifted immediately to Crowley’s face at the retreating touch. Aziraphale’s smile took a warmer hue, so unbearably soft that Crowley had to clear his throat and look away.

He turned back to Aziraphale just in time to be faced with a forkful of cake, hovering teasingly in front of his face.

“You first,” Aziraphale purred, the pointed stare of his eyes belying the easy smile painted upon his lips. He looked _hungry_, all of a sudden, and Crowley swallowed hard at being the focus of that sort of consideration with no time to prepare whatsoever.

He thought about playfully declining, diverting that unbearable attention away from himself somehow, until he was ready for it, until his thudding heart slowed down to a more normal pace, but he realised in a daze that he didn’t really _want_ to. He leant forward instead, Aziraphale’s focus like a soothing touch on his cheek, and opened his mouth around the bite that was held in front of his face. He closed his eyes at the burst of flavour on his tongue, and heard the sharp intake of Aziraphale’s breath like a bang in the sudden silence. For a suspended moment, there was a buzzing hush in the busy café, the noise turned down to a distant rustle. Everything seemed so far away, and Crowley felt untouchable, connected to reality only by the fork that was working as a bridge between himself and Aziraphale.

Then he pulled back slowly, and the moment shattered. He felt almost tipsy as he opened his eyes and took Aziraphale’s in, and Aziraphale’s gaze looked a bit glassy, too. He stayed there with his empty fork hanging in the air for a moment, before blinking back to some sort of alertness and lowering it.

“We need to talk,” Aziraphale blurted out, abruptly and rather brutally.

Crowley reared back at the tone, at the words, the stillness of the moment utterly shattered.

“We do?” he dumbly repeated, feeling every single wall he had built through the years slamming shut at that proclamation. He remembered now, a little belatedly, that they were supposed to have a discussion at some point, but he’d thought that the frankly amazing sex they’d had could work as a substitute.

He’d clearly been wrong. Or maybe Aziraphale had talked to Anathema as well, who knew. Either way, a subtle, nagging unease started to rise in his blood, as he tried to deflect a bit Aziraphale’s suddenly unbearable attention with a sip of his coffee. He barely tasted it.

“Yes,” Aziraphale confirmed, something a bit harsh in his voice. “There are things that we need to discuss, and I can’t just wait for us to blurt them out at some point in the future while we’re being... intimate. I need to know if I’ve been making a tit out of myself.”

“I don’t think I understand,” Crowley carefully replied, in such an obvious stalling that he nearly cringed at the painfully awkwardness of his answer. He almost felt the blood leave his face in a rush as Aziraphale slowly and very deliberately placed his fork on his still-full plate–an ominous sign if there had ever been one.

“I meant to ask...” Aziraphale started, then paused, then started again, “I _would_ _like_ to know what you want.”

“What I want.”

“Yes. Out of this... _thing_ we have.”

Crowley almost choked on nothing, feeling a cold blade of dread slicing his skin. For the first time in a long while, he felt desperately relieved he was wearing his sunglasses.

“_Thing_,” he replied, rather dully. He disliked that term, disliked that Aziraphale had brought it up. He’d said that they were partners. Wasn’t that enough? What else could they possibly need to discuss? Unless, well, unless Crowley had read the entire thing wrong. Unless Aziraphale was taking a step back, redefining boundaries. Because that was what this was, wasn’t it? Taking whatever was going on between them and giving it some sort of shape, a beginning and an end. And why bringing it up, if Crowley hadn’t done something wrong, something that needed some reworking along the line?

He was the blundering one, after all. Sex he knew, but he had an inkling that Aziraphale had more experience on the subject of relationships than he could ever collect in whatever was left of his lifetime, and if Aziraphale felt the need to redefine their situation, well, that meant that Crowley had done something to bring them there.

_I would like to know what you want._

And what was he supposed to answer to _that_, anyway? He was barely aware that a relationship meant having repeated sex with the same person and, unless a different sort of agreement had been struck, that person only, but aside that he was walking blind. He’d thought that much had already been settled. What else could they possibly need to discuss? And what sort of answer did Aziraphale expect from him? Because he _knew_ that Aziraphale was expecting something, it was spelled ever so clearly in the tense line of his mouth, but Crowley didn’t know the words that would get him through that moment unscathed. Too much, too little? Or honesty, perhaps? But how could he be honest, if he didn’t know what he wanted?

Well, perhaps he did know. He wanted to keep doing whatever it was they were doing for an undefined amount of time, curling up around Aziraphale so tightly he could never break free. He wanted a relationship, whatever that meant. But how could he explain a word he didn’t understand in the first place?

He was working himself up to a frenzy, Crowley was distantly aware of it. He was staring at the tabletop in stubborn silence as though he was striving to bore a hole into it, trying to extract words out of his rioting mind as adults were supposed to be able to. He could barely hear his own thoughts above the thundering of his heart, the rushing of his blood.

Perhaps it was so loud that Aziraphale could hear it, too, because his gentle voice cracked the stillness of the moment like a silver bell.

“Oh, Crowley,” he murmured, reaching out to brush Crowley’s hand. Crowley watched the movement with a sort of fascination, since he’d forgotten all about the hand he’d kept wrapped around his mug, and felt the touch like a vibration under the skin. “Perhaps it was unfair of me, asking you to open up first. I was the one breaching the subject, after all. It’s only fitting that we start with me.”

Aziraphale hesitated, looking oddly nervous as he picked at his poor suffering napkin. He was staring down at his plate, teeth gnawing on his plump lower lip. Crowley almost reached out to pull it free. Almost.

“I thought I was being quite obvious in my intentions, at first, but now I think it needs to be said. I’m not looking for a fling. I’m not good at... short-term relationships,” Aziraphale blurted out, looking a bit uncomfortable at the thought. Crowley belatedly realised that with short-term relationships Aziraphale meant one-night stands, and wondered how many exactly Aziraphale had ever had to know that he wasn’t very good at them. The thought sparked something in Crowley’s mind, something a bit curious and a bit disgruntled.

“I’m looking for a committed relationship, monogamous and long term,” Aziraphale valiantly added. He sounded almost as if he was talking to himself, shoulders tense against the hot-red backdrop of their boot. It made for an odd contrast. “I was hoping you’d be interested in the same, because I’d like to have that with you.”

Crowley’s mind came screeching to a halt, as Aziraphale’s voice died out. No one had ever asked that of him. They were eager to have sex, a few times repeatedly, but they inevitably saw the rot underneath the skin, sooner or later, and disappeared from his life like smoke.

A _committed relationship_. Crowley was barely aware of what the terms meant. Monogamous he could do, especially since he didn’t really feel like shagging anyone else when Aziraphale seemed to reach under his skin and seize pleasure like a riotous cat in a cage, dragging it out kicking and screaming, but everything else was foreign ground.

He took apparently too long to answer, because Aziraphale’s face started to fall. The hopeful look in his eyes dimmed a little, and something slammed shut in his face as he glanced away. Crowley couldn’t have that. Whatever circles his anxious brain was running, Aziraphale’s distress always cut deep, deeper than anything else, even deeper than his own misery. He was seizing Aziraphale’s hand before his mind could come up with an answer, or a single logical thought, really, and stopped the other man from uselessly rearranging their perfectly ordered cutlery.

Aziraphale’s eyes were wide and bright as he looked up at Crowley.

“I might not be very good at that, long term, committed, whatever, but I’ll try,” Crowley babbled, because he’d do anything to feel close to Aziraphale again, to bask in the warmth of his affection. Anything at all. Even cutting his soul to ribbons, like the hopeless addict to gentleness that he was. “I mean, yes, I want that too. What you want. Yes.”

Aziraphale’s eyes searched his own for a moment, and Crowley felt a stab of panic at the realisation that he’d unwittingly confessed that he didn’t do long-term relationships often, or ever, but then a smile broke on Aziraphale’s lips, and Crowley felt the straggling tendrils of that mounting dread recede slowly.

“All right,” Aziraphale answered, in a soft, hushed voice. “You seemed so taken aback when I called you partner that I thought, well. I thought it would be better to make sure we were on the same page, before carrying on.”

Crowley tilted his head a bit guiltily at that, but Aziraphale reached up and slowly took off his sunglasses. Crowley had almost forgotten he was wearing them, and he was suddenly blinded by the harsh lights of the café, the hot red of the furniture jumping at his retina like a slap in the face. He was still struggling to get used to the onslaught when Aziraphale’s hand cradled his cheek, forcing Crowley to look down at him, straight into his eyes. That glorious blue washed everything else away, bristling with a warmth that was almost physical, almost a touch.

“None of that, now,” Aziraphale murmured, knowing with almost preternatural intuition what lurked in Crowley’s mind. “Misunderstandings happen. That’s why we need to talk things out. You’re not supposed to know what I think or mean by some miraculous sixth sense. You ask what you don’t know.”

Crowley tried to pull away, but Aziraphale wouldn’t let him. The grip on Crowley’s chin tightened ever so slightly, but enough to keep him in place. The gesture was shocking enough that Crowley didn’t even try to fight it, allowing Aziraphale to keep him where he wanted–naked, and open, and vulnerable. Unbearably close.

“This is not... well, I, I,” Crowley stammered, trying to convey that he didn’t need that sort of coddling after all, it was all fine, and couldn’t they talk about something else instead?, but Aziraphale was relentless. Whatever that was, he considered it important enough to make sure that Crowley couldn’t wriggle away from him, and Crowley realised that Aziraphale wouldn’t relent until he got his point across.

There was a part of Crowley that really, _really_ didn’t mind that sort of forcefulness. And another that wanted to crawl under the table and never come out again.

“_No_,” Aziraphale said, everything uncertain or bashful about him neatly swept away by the obvious urgency of the matter. “If you don’t understand something, or if you want to know something, you ask.” A deep breath. “I know I haven’t been exactly forthcoming so far, keeping my cards so close to my chest, and that was really unhelpful and unfair of me. I’ll try to do better. I promise. But if you have doubts, I want you to ask. I want... I want this relationship to work. I really do. Will you help me?”

There was such an eagerness, an honesty in Aziraphale’s words that Crowley felt like he could barely breathe, let alone talk. He nodded, instead, and hoped to convey his meaning through his naked eyes.

Aziraphale studied his face a moment longer, before smiling softly and taking his hand away.

Crowley wasn’t really to blame for what came out of his mouth next. Aziraphale had insisted, after all.

“What happened with Robert?”

The words had barely left his lips that Crowley already regretted them, but the damage was done. He couldn’t take them back, and he wanted to know. He’d wanted to know for a very long time. That ex of Aziraphale had lingered between them for too long, the man who according to Anathema had broken Aziraphale’s heart, the dreamy neurosurgeon that Aziraphale’s arsehole siblings couldn’t shut up about. Crowley had never even met him, and yet he was sick and tired already of his presence. He’d been scared for too long to investigate, but now he’d got to the point where knowing would actually be better than that endless assuming. And Aziraphale had encouraged him to ask, after all. If he wanted Crowley to stop guessing, well, that was the starting point.

Pity that Aziraphale didn’t seem so eager to answer, after all. He’d frozen on the spot like a deer in the headlights, staring at Crowley with dazed eyes for a long moment. Then he looked away, taking the time to fold carefully Crowley’s sunglasses and place them on the tabletop before answering.

“I did tell you to ask, after all,” he sighed, and then shook his head. “It’s my fault. I should’ve talked about that sooner. It’s just... an unpleasant subject.”

As heartbreaks usually tended to be. Crowley felt horrible, all of a sudden. They were having such a nice evening, and he was just now starting to be hit with the magnitude of what had come to pass not five minutes before, the confirmation that he had what he wanted, that he’d get to have his cake and eat it too, and now he’d gone and ruined it all with an ill-advised question. He should’ve just basked in the feeling of finally having Aziraphale for himself instead of endangering their budding relationship.

But he wanted to know.

He wanted to know what had gone wrong, so that he could avoid the same mistakes. Yes. But he also wanted to know for the sake of knowing, to peel back a little the skin and see what was underneath. He craved to be close to Aziraphale’s bleeding flesh in a way that was vaguely disturbing, but he couldn’t avoid it, couldn’t stop, even as he regretted every single word. Because he knew that a part of him would shatter, when he heard that Aziraphale had loved his ex and perhaps loved him still. Aziraphale wouldn’t lie to him about that, Crowley knew. He’d tell him things as they were.

Aziraphale took a deep breath, obviously struggling to make order in his thoughts, before finally carrying on.

“I met him six years ago, at an auction. I love rare books, he loved antiques. We ended up talking and he asked me out for a date. It was a bit of a... difficult time, so I said yes.” Aziraphale hesitated, and Crowley realised that he was measuring what to say, struggling to keep his promise while keeping hidden what he wasn’t ready yet to reveal. Crowley could understand the feeling. He was warmed to the bone by the simple fact that Aziraphale was trying, and so hard at that. “It was all right, at first. It was _good_. But I knew it wouldn’t last. The way I am was not really... compatible with the way he was.”

Crowley frowned, stopping himself from speaking up. He knew that Aziraphale had told him to ask questions, but he didn’t want him to feel like he was being interrogated. The amount of trust he was already showing was more than Crowley had ever dreamt of. Crowley wasn’t completely sure he could even match it, if push came to shove. He realised a bit belatedly that he was just as cagey as Aziraphale, and the thought startled him, somehow.

“He used to say,” Aziraphale carried on, after taking a deep breath, “he used to say that I was controlling. Always there, always watching. He felt as if he couldn’t have a single moment for himself, his every action evaluated. He found me insistent, suffocating. Overbearing. Which is why he left, eventually.”

Crowley’s frown deepened. That explained a few things. He wasn’t as perceptive as Aziraphale, but he could guess easily enough where his hesitations at asking Crowley out too often came from. Or maybe they had much older roots, and that Robert fellow had just made a bad situation worse. Either way, Crowley understood that dread of being too insistent, too present, too _much_, on a personal, visceral level. He felt a sudden wave of deep-rooted shame at his own cowardice, leaving the weight of decision entirely on Aziraphale’s shoulders. He could’ve asked himself a few times, but he’d stalled, and Aziraphale had been left to pick up the slack, despite his own worries. Crowley decided that if Aziraphale could be more open, he could at least be a bit braver. He owed Aziraphale that much.

But Aziraphale was still talking, and Crowley focused his attention on him, loath to lose a single word.

“I didn’t really miss him, when he was gone,” Aziraphale said, something distant and vaguely ashamed on his expressive face. “Isn’t that horrible? I was with him for five years, and I barely registered his absence. Made me wonder if I’ve ever loved him, or even liked him. If I was with him because I wanted to be with him, or because he was the best option at the time.”

Aziraphale’s voice came suddenly to a halt, his blue eyes widening as he took in Crowley. He’d obviously said more than he’d meant to, and his face was blotchy as he looked away.

“What a lovely picture you must have of me right now,” Aziraphale murmured, in a halting, humourless voice, full of self-reproach. “But at least I kept my promise.”

For a long, still moment, everything Crowley could do was to process that deluge of information. Then the meaning of Aziraphale’s words came crashing down, and Crowley felt a drowning wave of sheer relief at not being the stand-in for a man Aziraphale was still in love with, and supremely guilty at _that_ being the first thing springing into his mind. He also remembered his tantrum at the thought of Aziraphale still being hung up on someone else, and felt a bit like a fool, but nothing could be done about that now. Especially not when Aziraphale was looking at him with uncertain, slightly beseeching eyes, obviously waiting for a reaction.

“I don’t think you’re suffocating,” Crowley spit out first, because his brain could only process so much information at a time and it was still obviously hung up on the previous bit. It was true, though. He really didn’t find Aziraphale suffocating, even if he could understand in a way why someone else might think that. Then again, Crowley was usually labelled as the needy one, so maybe people were wrong about the both of them. Or maybe they were right, and their jagged edges, that made fitting with anyone else impossible, slotted together like matching gears.

Aziraphale gave him an odd sort of smile, as though he was warmed by the words but not entirely sure he could believe him.

“Thank you, my dear,” he said, looking down at his plate, obviously ready to change the subject. He reached for his fork, but Crowley grasped his hand.

“I mean it,” he insisted, not quite certain why but hell-bent on making sure that his message got across. “I don’t. I... I like it. The way you pay attention to me. It’s not too much. And I think... I think I like the way you talk to me, too. You can be a bit bossy, but not in a bad way. And I don’t mind being told what to do.”

Crowley realised how his little speech had come out when he felt the weight of Aziraphale’s eyes boring into his own. There was a new, almost electric intensity in the way Aziraphale was staring at him, fixed and unblinking, a way that made him feel a little self-conscious. Crowley looked away, reaching for his sunglasses without a real deliberate decision and putting them on. Aziraphale’s stare was just as piercing with muted colours, and Crowley scratched his nape, feeling the tension of the moment in his teeth.

Then Aziraphale’s gaze finally softened, his smile so tender that Crowley’s heart cracked a little.

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale repeated, and even if the words were exactly the same, the meaning behind them was entirely different. Crowley bowed his head and sighed, realising that he’d been holding his breath.

The tension dissipated slowly, after that. Aziraphale finally tried his cheesecake, and was so taken with the flavour that he decided they should _definitely_ give the café another go in a future not too far away, to which Crowley agreed with a chuckle. It _was_ a good cheesecake; even Crowley, who didn’t like sweets much, could agree on that. The coffee was good, too, and even if the place was a bit too flashy for Crowley’s taste (what an irony), he could stand a few more visits, if it made Aziraphale happy.

(Whom was he even kidding? He’d go there every single week, every single _day_, if it made Aziraphale happy.)

They left a little before nine, when the place was starting to get a bit too busy for their comfort. Crowley insisted on paying, since Aziraphale had taken care of their ridiculously expensive dinner the week before, and they had to struggle a little to avoid the queuing people waiting for a place to be freed. Aziraphale laughed when they finally managed to extract themselves from that hellhole, and Crowley couldn’t really help but join him. They were still laughing between themselves, as they walked through the crowded streets of Soho.

* * *

There was something oddly welcoming in the way Aziraphale’s flat opened up for him as soon as Crowley walked through the door, like an old song of which Crowley had forgotten the words but could still remember the melody. He felt the gentle pull of a smile on his lips as he stood in the cluttered living room, with the same piles of books gathering dust everywhere and a few dirty mugs littering the few free surfaces. Crowley wondered idly whether Aziraphale didn’t really bother to clean up for him, or whether he _did_ clean up, and that was the tidiest version of his humble abode. Either way, Crowley and his own minimalist tendencies in furniture were hit once again square in the chest by the warmth of the place.

“You can leave your bag by the door, my dear,” Aziraphale distractedly instructed him, as he quickly walked towards the kitchen, “while I get the heating. I’m sorry, I know this place is freezing, but I don’t feel safe leaving the heating on when I’m not at home. Not with all these books lying about.”

“Don’t worry, angel,” Crowley chuckled, leaving his bag where instructed and tossing his sunglasses on top of it, before slowly peeling off his coat. The temperature in the flat _was_ frigid, but he hoped Aziraphale would solve the problem himself before not too long. “I survived worse conditions.”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale huffed, joining him by the doorway to place down his satchel carefully and hang their coats, “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

Crowley hummed under his breath, before slowly encroaching Aziraphale’s personal space and backing him up against the door. Aziraphale’s eyes had a mischievous spark to them, but he allowed Crowley to crowd him against the solid wood, hands planted on the panels and arms bracketing Aziraphale’s shoulders.

“I’m really not,” Crowley whispered, bending down to kiss Aziraphale ever so softly on the lips. There was something buzzing under his skin, an anticipation that had been brewing for hours, ever since he’d made his bag what felt like ages before in his own flat, and now it was spilling over like an overflowing cup. He could feel the thick tendrils of it tugging at his flesh, running deep in his bloodstream, revved up by the way Aziraphale felt under him, so pliant and welcoming and unbearably _soft_. Crowley kissed him again, and again, and again, a shower of light kisses that were surprisingly chaste for the way his muscles trembled at the strain of keeping himself together, barely more than pecks.

Aziraphale hummed against his mouth, as he brought his hand up and pulled loose the knot that kept Crowley’s scarf in place. Crowley felt the metallic tassels at both ends bouncing against his chest, then Aziraphale was pulling the scarf ever so slowly off his neck, expensive silk blend slithering against Crowley’s nape like a whispery touch, surprisingly arousing. Then the last tassel was snapping free, and the scarf hit the floorboards with a dull thud, as Aziraphale pulled away from Crowley’s lingering lips to take a good look at the hickey he’d left on his neck.

“Cheeky boy,” Aziraphale hummed, pressing his thumb against the bruise. It didn’t really hurt anymore, but Aziraphale’s touch had been so pointed that Crowley felt a spike of something that was almost ache resonating under his skin. “Did you enjoy that? Teasing me?”

Crowley kissed the crown of Aziraphale’s head, felt the softness of his hair under his lips.

“Yes.”

He felt the brush of Aziraphale’s mouth against the bruise like an electric current, hitting deep, and couldn’t help but groan against his curls when Aziraphale pressed a hand between his legs, checking for himself how much Crowley was enjoying the teasing _now_.

“Already so far along,” Aziraphale murmured, rubbing his hand sweetly against Crowley’s trapped cock. Crowley was getting so hard so fast he almost felt his head spin, and he nuzzled Aziraphale’s temple, pressing his cheek against Aziraphale’s as he slammed both his forearms against the door and pressed them closer together.

“You are so beautifully responsive, my darling,” Aziraphale carried on, whispering in his ear as he slowly opened Crowley’s trousers. “It’s like playing an instrument.” A nipping kiss under his jaw. “Find the right fingering.” A hand yanking his waistband down, freeing his cock. “Pluck a cord.” A warm palm cupping his balls, forcing his legs to spread wider, startling a yelp out of his lips. “And you sing the prettiest songs.”

Crowley keened against the crown of Aziraphale’s head as Aziraphale wrapped his hand around his hardening cock, sliding along its length in one steady pull. Crowley felt the pleasure of the touch like the chiming of a bell, deep inside his flesh, and searched blindly for Aziraphale lips in a bruising kiss. Aziraphale opened up easily for his tongue, humming his approval in Crowley’s mouth as Crowley licked inside. His knees almost buckled at the welcoming slide of Aziraphale’s tongue against his own, a warm, tender point of contact between their bodies.

The kiss went on and on, and Crowley found himself cradling Aziraphale’s face in his palms as it drew to an end. He was achingly hard in Aziraphale’s grip, hips starting to snap without any input from his brain to meet Aziraphale’s easy pulls.

“This is _exquisite_,” Aziraphale cooed, looking down at Crowley’s cock fucking his fist. “What a lovely creature you are, my darling. Watching you taking your pleasure is such a heady thing.”

It was so much. The anticipation, the dread, the elation. Knowing for a fact that Aziraphale _wanted_ to be with him, that he could have this, he could revel in it. It was such a heavy concept, so huge that it could only sink into his brain in increments, turning from words into facts slowly, almost painfully. Crowley felt the weight of it in his chest, close to his heart, and it hurt as it spread, pushing his organs aside to make space for its impossible girth. He was shaking so hard he felt his teeth clattering in his mouth as he pulled Aziraphale’s mouth against his and kissed him again, shallowly and violently, and again, and again, with nearly bruising force. His hips were stuttering in their thrusts, his cock wilting a little. He broke the kiss and wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders, holding him tightly as he hid his face against the crown of his head.

Aziraphale seemed to understand the shifting mood in a heartbeat, letting go of Crowley’s softening cock to wrap his arms around his waist. Crowley sighed so deeply it sounded a bit like a sob at the feeling of Aziraphale’s hands gently stroking his back.

“Is everything all right, darling?” Aziraphale asked, so very softly.

Crowley didn’t trust his voice enough to answer, and just held him tighter, trying to use Aziraphale’s stalwart steadiness to stop the shaking of his aching muscles.

“Ssh, it’s all right, my dear,” Aziraphale whispered, low and soft, straight into his ear. “You’re all right. My lovely Crowley. Such a precious thing you are.”

Crowley felt something break inside his chest at the tenderness in Aziraphale’s voice, and to his complete horror, he started crying. He tried to hold it in at first, but it was impossible, the soothing touch of Aziraphale’s hands against his back and his gentle whispers yanking whatever that was out of him with ruthless resolve. Soon he was sobbing, openly and almost angrily, each breathless sound dragged kicking and screaming out of his aching chest. He was sobbing like a child on a tantrum, heavy stuttering breaths shattered by keening wails, an ugly, violent thing, like a pitiless tide, pulling everything out. He cried, and cried, and cried, until his sleeve was soaked with tears, until his chest felt empty and his throat raw. He didn’t even know why he was crying, and maybe that was exactly why he couldn’t stop, couldn’t exercise even a modicum of control over his riotous body. He shook and sobbed with his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders and his limp cock hanging out of his lowered pants, making a spectacle out of himself, like the pitiful thing that he was. But Aziraphale’s hold never wavered, the soothing murmuring of his voice never stopped.

Crowley wasn’t sure how long he went on like that. He went on until he was emptied to the bone, until there was nothing else left to cry. And then he stayed there for a while longer, trying to find his bearings, because he wasn’t ready to look at Aziraphale in the eye. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. But he couldn’t keep hiding forever, and eventually even Aziraphale tentatively brushed his elbow.

“Darling? May I look at you?”

Such a complicated question. Crowley wanted to pull up his trousers, pick up whatever was left of his dignity and run out of there, but he couldn’t. It wouldn’t have been right to Aziraphale, who had just spent who knew how long holding him like a wailing kid, lending him whatever help he could give to assist Crowley in getting his bloody moods under control. He was doing more for him than Crowley had any right to ask, so he couldn’t very well just run away.

It took an extreme effort, but Crowley slowly lifted his head from the safe nest of his elbow, swallowing dread as Aziraphale’s concerned face swam back into focus. His eyes were firm and steady as he took Crowley’s devastated face in, and Crowley felt scrubbed raw, as though his skin had been peeled off to make a lurid show of the flesh underneath, vulnerable in a way that he hadn’t felt in years. He was a kid again, for a moment, looking at his uncle coming to pick him up from school for the first and last time in his life from behind a glass door.

Then Aziraphale’s soft lips opened into a smile, and Crowley almost started to cry again at the agonizingly tender touch of Aziraphale’s palm against his cheek.

“There you are,” Aziraphale whispered, caressing Crowley’s cheek as though it was something precious, and not a bony latticework of blood and skin and sinews cleaved by the very first lines and tacky with tears. “Is that better, now?”

Crowley almost scoffed at the absurdity of that question, almost pulled away, because he’d just made a fool of himself, _again_, and he felt aching and tired and confused and sticky everywhere. And yet, as he thought about Aziraphale’s words, _really_ thought about them, he realised slowly that he _was_ feeling better. He felt as though something had started to unravel, and although the knot was far from loose, he was finally holding one of its ends.

He felt as though a weight that had been crushing him down for years had finally been lifted. What an odd thing.

“Yes,” he answered, truthfully. He felt a headache coming, but that strange feeling of almost lightness didn’t really go away. Still, he should probably leave the poor man alone and let him sleep. Aziraphale had already put up with a lot for him, and Crowley wasn’t going to be good company for a while. Better reschedule their evening, perhaps. “I’m sorry,” he added, pulling away from Aziraphale enough to fight his cock back into his pants and button up his jeans. “I should... I should probably go.”

Aziraphale’s eyes seemed to blaze in the soft lights for a moment, and Crowley took a step back at the fierceness of his tone.

“_That’s out of the quest_-” Aziraphale blurted out, before getting a hold on himself with obvious effort and softening the bristling command of his voice. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. It’s already late, and you are in no condition to drive. Stay. Please.” A beat, as Aziraphale searched his face, clearly reading how unconvinced Crowley was about that option. Then he sighed, a deep, almost fragile thing. “_Please_. Stay for me. I don’t think I could sleep, knowing that you went home like this. I’d be fretting the entire night. Please.”

And as Crowley slowly processed the fact that Aziraphale was _begging_ him to stay, with an unhappy grimace and beseeching eyes, he realised with a start that what had happened between them, whatever that was, had taken a toll out of Aziraphale, too. He looked a bit worse for the wear, tired and drained, his natural radiance somewhat dulled.

Crowley had done that. The least he could do now was to stay and make sure that Aziraphale was all right, too.

“Sure, angel,” he acquiesced, bowing his head. He felt too empty and dazed to drive, anyway. “I’ll stay.”

Aziraphale’s lips pulled up into a soft smile, a bit paler than usual, but almost unbearably fond. The relief coming from him in waves was strong enough that Crowley could almost touch it.

“Thank you, my dear,” he whispered, gently stroking Crowley’s face. “Would you like something to drink, darling? A cup of tea, perhaps?”

Crowley chuckled at that. He couldn’t help it, really. And if it came out a bit watery and a bit trembling, well, he doubted he could be much worse than wailing his soul out on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“How British of you.”

Aziraphale scoffed, but he was already pushing him down onto the couch. Crowley let him, and soon he was ensconced in cushions.

“I _am_ British,” Aziraphale grumbled, “and so are you.”

“Fine, whatever,” Crowley snorted, waving him away. He closed his eyes, listening to Aziraphale pottering in the kitchen. His lids felt puffy, and his face ached. He could only imagine what he looked like, and hoped against hope that he hadn’t just ruined his image as a sexual partner forever in Aziraphale’s mind. He didn’t really feel up for some sex that night, but he wouldn’t mind having some in the very near future, and could only hope that Aziraphale wouldn’t find himself repelled by a snivelling man almost in his forties breaking down during a hand job. It was so embarrassing, really. Now that he could put a bit of distance between himself and what had happened, Crowley felt mostly mortified.

He was trying to keep that confused knot of embarrassment and anxiety under control when Aziraphale came back. It wasn’t usually so difficult to keep himself in check, and Crowley couldn’t really understand what was so different, right now. He felt loose in a way that he didn’t really enjoy.

He wondered whether Aziraphale could actually read his face like one of his books, when he felt the piercing weight of those blue eyes land on his face. Aziraphale was holding two steaming cups of tea, and was staring at him from above, like a statue. Crowley felt the unbalance of power of their respective stances keenly, but he was too strung out and boneless to get to his feet, even if it hadn’t looked almost unbearably silly.

“Crowley, I...” Aziraphale started, something uncertain, almost nervous in his voice. It plucked at Crowley’s shaken core, and he felt himself answer to it, in a strange, visceral way. “I think, ah, I think I may have an idea. But I’m not sure if it would help, or... make things worse.”

Crowley lifted a brow at him. Worse than him having a breakdown in the middle of Aziraphale’s living room? That sounded too good to pass.

“I’m all ears.”

Aziraphale tilted his head in that considering way of his, before nodding, more to himself than to Crowley.

“All right.” He placed both cups on the cabinet besides the couch, within grasp. Then he tugged his waistcoat down, took a steadying breath and planted a firm gaze on Crowley. “Strip, please.”

Crowley stared back at him with both brows brushing his forehead. He’d been wondering whether his performance had spoiled whatever chance he might have to bed this man again in the future, but that was a bit... abrupt. And he wasn’t sure he felt up for sex, though he should probably give it a try, at least, if Aziraphale insisted. The poor man deserved to get _something_ out of that wretched evening.

He felt every single muscle protest at the strain, as he pushed himself up from his comfortable nest and pulled off his henley. The flat was finally starting to warm up, but it was still too cool for comfort, and Crowley felt goosebumps rippling his naked skin, his nipples pebbling. He threw a side glance at Aziraphale, but he was just standing there, watching, without offering any encouragement. Crowley realised just how much he’d latched on Aziraphale’s purring praises only now that they were gone, and the discovery startled him a bit.

“Everything?” he asked, his hands hovering a bit uncertainly over the button of his jeans.

Aziraphale seemed to consider that for a moment, before nodding.

“Everything, please.”

Crowley felt little tremors running through his hands, as he complied. He was floundering a little, his body aching and drained and uncooperative, his mind empty and bristling. He felt vulnerable taking off his clothes in a way that he hadn’t felt in a long time, and he couldn’t help but cover his cock with his hand as he stood naked by the couch. It was such an odd gesture. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d purposely covered himself instead of flaunting his naked skin, the last time he’d felt flayed to bleeding flesh simply by standing bare in front of someone else. The fact that Aziraphale was completely dressed and staring at him in silence with unreadable eyes, of course, did nothing to help.

He was just about to say something, to shatter that impossible tension, when Aziraphale seemed to blink himself back to the moment. He stepped to the couch and fluffed a cushion against the armrest, before picking up the soft tartan throw and sitting down. Crowley watched him slowly unlace his shoes and push them aside, before settling with his back against the cushion and wriggling about until he was satisfied. Only then Aziraphale’s blue eyes flickered up to Crowley.

“Come here, darling,” he said, ever so gently. He opened his arms in an obvious welcoming gesture, and Crowley found himself reacting to that blatant invitation before his brain could even properly process it. He was still trying to understand the situation as he sat down onto the couch, and allowed Aziraphale to rearrange his naked limbs until he was curled up between the bent arches of Aziraphale’s legs, naked and vulnerable and oddly comfortable in the sturdy enclosure of Aziraphale’s body. He allowed Aziraphale to pull his head against his chest, and then he found himself wrapped tightly in the blanket, Aziraphale fussing about to make sure that not even a small patch of Crowley’s naked skin was exposed to the cold air of the flat.

Once satisfied, Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley’s shoulders from over the throw, and sank a hand into his hair. The touch was both electrifying and impossibly tender, and Crowley almost felt like crying again as Aziraphale bent down to place soft kisses on the crown of his head, while gently scratching his scalp with short nails.

“There,” Aziraphale whispered, that honeyed voice of him dripping in Crowley’s ears, “All settled. Are you comfortable, sweetheart?”

“Hmm,” Crowley answered, because he felt tired, all of a sudden, and keeping his eyes open was enough of a struggle–speaking was beyond him.

Aziraphale, however, didn’t seem particularly understanding of the situation. He stopped the steady scratching against his scalp, tearing an undignified whine out of Crowley’s throat. Crowley felt a stab of embarrassment at that lack of control, but it was far away, too dim and distant to be properly felt.

“That won’t do at all,” Aziraphale chided him, and it was strange, the way Aziraphale’s displeasure reached Crowley when his own unease could not. “You will answer my questions with words, darling. Are we understood?”

“Yes, alright,” Crowley grumbled, because Aziraphale’s disapproval _stung_ in a way that he couldn’t properly process. But then Aziraphale’s hand was back in his hair, and Crowley felt himself melt at the touch, his body relaxing almost instantly at the gentle scratching.

“_Very good_, sweetheart,” Aziraphale cooed, and the reaction, this time, was instantaneous. Pleasure washed through Crowley in a dizzying wave, leaving his skin tingling and his riotous mind muted, a hazy calm taking its place. It was an irresistible sort of peace, and Crowley realised slowly that he’d already felt the same kind of silence once or twice before, and that it had something to do with Aziraphale, somehow. As though he wasn’t already pathetically addicted to the man.

Crowley sighed, deep and shuddering, and Aziraphale kissed the crown of his head again. Such slow, tender kisses. Crowley felt them sink deep into his skin, swirl in his bloodstream. He felt them in the tip of his nose and the tips of his fingers.

“You are so very precious, my darling boy,” Aziraphale carried on, combining the steady scratching of Crowley’s scalp with a gentle stroking motion along his back. “So lovely. So sweet. Are you comfortable, dearest?”

It took Crowley a moment to realise that Aziraphale had asked him a question, and another moment to think of an answer. It was so difficult to force his mouth to articulate words, but Aziraphale had requested it, and Crowley wanted to please him. It was so lovely, when Aziraphale was pleased. It made Crowley feel serene in a way that transcended explanation, calm and peaceful and drifting.

“Yes,” Crowley answered eventually, feeling inordinately proud of himself for the feat. Aziraphale awarded him with another kiss against his hair, and Crowley felt giddy at the wave of approval dripping from his voice when he replied.

“How _good_ you are for me, my darling Crowley,” Aziraphale purred. “Will you tell me if you aren’t comfortable anymore?”

“Yes.”

The answer had come too quickly, apparently, since Aziraphale’s gentle stroking stopped. Crowley whined against his chest, thinking vaguely that he could feel the scratching of Aziraphale’s clothes against his naked skin, and that only compounded his high, somehow.

“Look at me, sweetheart,” Aziraphale murmured, not displeased but very firm. Crowley’s head lolled a bit as he tried to move it, but eventually he was complying, sleepily blinking Aziraphale’s serious blue eyes into focus. Aziraphale caressed his cheek, his chin, briefly brushing a thumb against his lip. Crowley shuddered at that touch, almost moaning into it. He felt Aziraphale’s sharp intake of breath as though it was his own. “You are perfect, my dove,” Aziraphale sighed, something between troubled and pleased, before cupping Crowley’s cheek again. “This is important, darling. If this doesn’t feel good anymore, I want you to tell me. I won’t be mad, I promise. Will you do it? For me?”

Crowley thought about it for a moment. He could do that for Aziraphale. He would do anything he asked. He wanted Aziraphale to be proud of him. It was a vaguely upsetting thought, but he couldn’t tell why, right then and there.

“Yes,” Crowley murmured, and then, in a bout of proud effort, “I’ll tell you.”

It seemed the right thing to say. Aziraphale smiled at him, fond and wondrously tender, and kissed his forehead.

“Good,” he purred, making Crowley’s skin sing, and then pulled him back against his chest. “Relax, now. You deserve some rest.”

Crowley’s body felt heavy in a way that was new and a bit alarming, but Aziraphale was there, holding him together, and even if he was naked and vulnerable Crowley felt oddly safe under the blanket, with Aziraphale’s arms wrapped around his shoulders and the scent of his skin all around him.

He _was_ tired, after all. So tired. He could rest a bit. And the gentle petting of Aziraphale’s hand against his hair was making any other alternative impossible.

Crowley closed his eyes with a sigh so deep he felt it in his very bones, and let himself go, listening to Aziraphale’s steady heartbeat as he sank under.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely people <3  
I’m so sorry it took me so long to update, but I crashed into a roadblock and I just couldn’t write a single word that I didn’t hate, so I decided to leave my muse alone for a while. It worked somewhat, and I truly hope you’ll like this chapter. It was pretty difficult to write, for some reason.  
That said, I just wanted to take a moment to thank you all for being absolutely wonderful. Your comments made my week, and you have no idea how delighted I am every time I see a new one popping up. They are an absolute gift.  
And talking about gifts, a particularly heartfelt THANK YOU to [this](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uponwhatgrounds/pseuds/uponwhatgrounds) amazing human being, who once again graced me with yet another gorgeous [piece of art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23647453) <3

Crowley came to slowly, one drop of consciousness at a time. It reminded him a bit of falling asleep on a train, something soothing in the background pulling him under, and then releasing him by degrees as reality coalesced back around him. He felt the heaviness of his head first, the haze, the ache of his puffy eyes, then the soft whisper of wool against his skin, the itch of someone else’s clothes rasping against his naked side. He was surrounded by Aziraphale’s scent, Aziraphale’s warmth. It felt familiar, and desperately comforting.

He stirred, ever so slightly. Aziraphale had his arms wrapped tightly around him, a grounding weight, and his chin pressed against Crowley’s hair. He adjusted his grip at Crowley’s sluggish shift, gently cupping the back of Crowley’s head with the palm of his hand. He didn’t say anything, though, waiting for Crowley to speak first.

“Did I fall asleep?” Crowley eventually asked, vaguely horrified at how groggy he sounded.

Aziraphale hummed against the crown of his head, his free hand smoothing the tartan wool over Crowley’s naked arm.

“Maybe,” he answered, voice down to a whisper. “I’m not sure. You were very quiet for a very long time.”

The moment had a delicate, nearly fragile stillness to it, as though one harsh word would shatter it irreparably. Crowley felt almost lethargic, thoughts crawling in his head at a languid pace, as if they were dipped in molasses. His body felt warm, boneless, impossibly heavy. His muscles were starting to ache from the cramped position, but it was a vague sort of feeling, a thought for another time. Crowley sighed against Aziraphale’s chest, then lifted his head blindly, pressing the bridge of his nose under the welcoming jut of Aziraphale’s jaw. The smell of Aziraphale’s cologne was stronger there, and the scent of his skin even stronger. It soothed Crowley’s confused senses in a way that defied logic, like a half-forgotten lullaby.

With that renewed perception of reality, unwelcome memories of what had happened between them came crashing down. A wave of shame hit Crowley like a wall, as a pounding headache started to beat on his skull like a drum. He felt a thick knot of dread coalesce into his stomach, skin itching against Aziraphale’s rasping clothes. He felt exposed in a way that wasn’t really pleasant anymore, a stinging sort of vulnerability that he wasn’t too sure he liked.

He’d probably started some minute, restless shifting without even noticing, because Aziraphale seemed to know that something was off before Crowley had even had the chance to open his mouth. He loosened his hold, allowing some freedom of movement that Crowley was startled to realise he had actually needed.

“Is everything all right, darling?” Aziraphale asked, his voice still low and soothing, if marginally sharper. It pulled at Crowley, somehow, dragging an answer out of his mouth before he could think about lying.

“I’m not sure,” he said, blinking his aching eyes open and moving slightly away from Aziraphale. “My head... I’m sorry.”

“Whatever are you sorry for, my dear boy?” Aziraphale murmured. The blanket had slipped down Crowley’s shoulders, and Aziraphale took advantage of Crowley’s naked skin to stroke ever so gently his arm. Crowley felt the touch like a whisper, reaching down to his very bones.

“For... that. Whatever that was. I don’t usually... break down like that.” Crowley pulled away from Aziraphale’s soothing touch, feeling too unbalanced to endure undeserved tenderness. “I ruined our evening, I think.”

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale firmly replied. He laced his fingers over his own belly, giving Crowley the space he needed. “I had a lovely evening, and holding you was hardly a hardship. Would you like that tea, now?”

Crowley was too confused to do more than nod. There was something soothing in Aziraphale’s practical approach to the situation, something that helped to sequester him from his own head. Crowley watched Aziraphale stretch backwards to get the tea with a gossamer silence fluttering in his skull, peaceful and all too fragile.

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose, as he picked a cup and wrapped his hand around it.

“It got cold,” he sighed. “I’ll make some more. Will you be all right to stay here on your own?”

Crowley chafed at the coddling. It felt condescending, grating, like coarse fabric against hypersensitive skin.

“I’m a big boy, I’m sure I’ll manage,” he scoffed, wincing a bit at how harsh it’d come out.

Aziraphale’s mouth twisted a little at that answer, and Crowley was startled by the surge of dread in the pit of his stomach that followed Aziraphale’s displeasure. He felt his skin prickle with it, his headache pounding with renewed fury against his skull. He pressed the heel of his hand against his brow and closed his eyes shut, trying to will away that biting migraine. Cold sweat was breaking on his nape, and he felt freezing all of a sudden, skin too tight for his body.

He almost pulled away at the gentle touch of Aziraphale’s hand on his cheek.

“Ssh, darling. It’s all right. Calm down.”

“I don’t understand,” Crowley snapped, hearing with mounting horror the trembling in his voice. “I’m not usually... like this.”

There was something bristling in his words, like a caged animal, and Crowley realised with some sort of distant dismay that he was panicking. He was panicking, and he didn’t even know why.

Aziraphale seemed to hear the echo of those dangerous fissures in his voice. Crowley found himself wrapped in sturdy arms, lips pressed tightly against the crown of his head, as Aziraphale held him together.

“Ssh, sweetheart. It’s all right. You’re all right. You’re all right.”

Crowley tensed for a moment in Aziraphale’s embrace, before grabbing fistfuls of his waistcoat and holding on nearly tight enough to rip the fabric. The subtle tremors of his limbs had turned into a full-body shaking, and no matter how mortifying that was, Crowley didn’t seem to be able to control it. He could do nothing but endure it, hearing without really listening the soothing murmurs of Aziraphale’s voice against his scalp as his nerves shuddered the panic away.

He felt emptied to the bone and thoroughly worn out, after his body had exhausted the last shards of that manic dread and had fallen limp against Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale stroked his hair for a while, before gently pushing him away. Crowley let himself be manhandled, and blinked open bleary eyes to the sight of Aziraphale tucking the blanket around his shoulders and tenderly settling him against the backrest of the couch.

“I’ll make you some tea, darling,” Aziraphale said, stroking Crowley’s cheek with heartbreaking tenderness, concern written all over his face. “If you need anything, anything at all, you call me. All right? Do you promise?”

Crowley swallowed, too drained even to feel shame. The pounding in his head was atrocious, like a long nail being steadily hammered between his eyes, and he couldn’t understand those extreme mood swings in the slightest.

“Yes,” he croaked, then coughed, trying to get a better handle on his riotous voice. “Yes, alright.”

Aziraphale searched his face a moment longer, before slowly getting up to his feet. He didn’t seem particularly happy to leave, but he collected the dirty cups and walked into the kitchen. Crowley closed his eyes, trying to relax against the backrest and listening to Aziraphale pottering about with half an ear.

He realised he’d been focusing on the sounds only when Aziraphale came back, and startled him with a gentle touch on his cheek.

“Here’s your tea, darling,” Aziraphale murmured, offering him a steaming cup on a delicate bone-china saucer. There was a tender smile hovering over his lips. “I wasn’t sure how you take it, so I assumed black and bitter, like your coffee.”

Crowley thought about a clever comeback, but he didn’t feel like making one up. He didn’t really feel like saying anything at all.

“Thank you,” he said instead, sneaking a hand out of the blanket to grasp gingerly the fragile-looking saucer, making the china-bone cup rattle a little. The hot tea burnt his tongue a little as he swallowed the first mouthful, but Crowley relished the sting. He didn’t really like tea, as a rule, but that was an admittedly nice blend, strong enough to appeal even to Crowley’s caffeine-addicted taste buds.

The stark flavour seemed to help clearing his hazy head, somehow, and the more he sipped at his tea, the more aware Crowley became of his surroundings. Aware enough to realise that Aziraphale was sitting at his side, sipping from his own cup and eyeing Crowley in a way that he obviously thought to be surreptitious. It startled a chuckle out of Crowley, triggering a warm smile on Aziraphale’s lips as well.

“Something funny, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, looking way too prim as he held with deliberate delicacy the saucer in one of his manicured hands and the handle of his cup in the other. The picture he cut seemed incredibly funny to Crowley, for some reason, and he burst into a laugh, a bit trembling but deeply felt.

“Just... you,” Crowley chuckled, shaking his head. “I know you’re checking on me. Even if you think you’re being so clever about it.”

Aziraphale scoffed at such nerve, way less piqued than he was pretending to be.

“Yes, well,” he grumbled, taking another sip at his tea in such a supercilious way that Crowley _had_ to laugh again. There was a wet quality to those laughs, but that dazed emptiness was finally starting to ooze out of his body, even if he felt weary to the bone.

Aziraphale was grinning at him, when Crowley sobered up. Then he sighed, eyes turning sombre as he regarded Crowley carefully.

“I’m worried about you,” he said, clearly struggling to find the right words. “That was... intense.”

“That’s one word for it,” Crowley grumbled. He felt a bit uncomfortable now, and embarrassed, but that unbearable mortification didn’t come back. Crowley was incredibly grateful for it. He didn’t think he could stand that sort of manic shame again.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

Crowley blinked up at Aziraphale, surprised by the question. They’d tiptoed around each other for so long, carefully avoiding anything that looked even close to a delicate subject, that having Aziraphale addressing an issue so directly felt somewhat startling.

_I want this relationship to work._

That was what he’d said, before Crowley’s tantrum ruined everything. Perhaps that was what it meant, having a relationship and making it work. Discussing problems.

Crowley could do it. He might not be very good at it, but he _could_. And, he realised with no small measure of shock, he _wanted_ to.

He was clearly going insane.

“I’m not... sure,” he answered, a little guardedly.

“You’re not sure you want to talk about it, or you’re not sure about what happened?” Aziraphale prodded him, not unkindly.

Crowley shrugged.

“Both?” He took a sip of his tea, stalling a bit. “It was strange. I don’t think it ever happened to me before.” A beat, then his mouth kept moving without his permission: “Not while I was with someone else, at least.”

Aziraphale hummed, his shrewd eyes searching Crowley’s face.

“Do you like what we do?” he asked, point blank and making very little sense. Crowley frowned, trying and failing to follow.

“What do you mean?”

“What we do. When we are intimate.” Aziraphale looked down at his cup, observing the milky tea swirling slowly at the gentle, rhythmic sway of his wrist. “It can be a little... overwhelming.”

“Sex?” Crowley scoffed. He’d been having all sorts of odd reactions to Aziraphale, granted, but he wasn’t exactly new to being buggered. Perhaps he’d given off the wrong impression, _again_, if Aziraphale’s perception of him had gone from sex fiend to shrinking violet. “I think I can handle being shagged, if that’s what you’re aiming at.”

Aziraphale’s eyes were bright and piercing, as they bore holes into Crowley’s.

“Is that what you think we’re doing?”

Crowley almost scoffed at the absurdity of that question, but something in Aziraphale’s voice stopped him short. He was having that odd feeling again, as though they were holding a conversation that Crowley only partially understood.

“Why, are we doing something else?” he carefully rebutted. He wondered for a moment if his choice of words had been the problem, but he quickly rejected the notion. He didn’t think that _making love_ was what Aziraphale meant. There was something else lurking under Aziraphale’s guarded tone, something closed to Crowley like a curtain.

(The fact that he wasn’t going near _that_ word, not yet, didn’t have anything to do with it, of course.

He’d freaked out completely at the idea of being in a _relationship_. He didn’t think he could handle that sort of nonsense as well in the same evening.)

Aziraphale sighed, painfully deep, as the tension lifted. He took another sip at his tea, emptying his cup.

“I’m trying not to,” he answered, which made even _less_ sense.

“What does that even _mean_?”

Aziraphale sighed again at Crowley’s outburst, placing his cup and the thin saucer on the cluttered table.

“Do we have to do this now?” he asked, and there was a pleading note in his voice. “It’s late, and we are both tired. We should go to bed, get some sleep.”

Crowley almost bit back that it had been _Aziraphale_’s idea to talk things out, but he _was_ tired, and his head was aching. He wasn’t sure why he wanted to lash out at Aziraphale, when it’d been Crowley to ruin their evening with a tantrum he couldn’t even begin to comprehend. His head had always been a messy place to begin with, but he’d never felt so unhinged, competing emotions sloshing about and spiking abruptly without any visible cause. He wasn’t sure he liked it. But he was certain that it wasn’t Aziraphale’s fault, whatever the man thought about it.

“Sure,” Crowley agreed, with an easy shrug. He didn’t feel very sleepy, just tired, with that restless headache pounding away in his skull. “Mind if I get ready first?”

“Not at all,” Aziraphale answered. He took a long good look at him, which Crowley didn’t even have it in him to resent, and then he was taking Crowley’s empty cup delicately. “Is there anything else I can do for you, my dear?”

Crowley pondered about refusing Aziraphale’s offer, but he didn’t think he could sleep with that stubborn migraine hammering steadily at his battered brain.

“Do you have painkillers?” he asked, pressing the heel of his hand against his brow.

“You have a headache?” Aziraphale asked, his obvious concern pressing against Crowley’s skin like a touch, not entirely pleasurable, but comforting in a way.

“Hmm.”

“Go get ready for bed, darling,” Aziraphale urged him, actually helping him on his feet, “I’ll get some water and painkillers for you.”

Crowley watched him go with bleary eyes, then he shrugged the spread off his shoulders and put it back on the couch. He’d forgotten that he was naked under it, and shuddered as the cool air of Aziraphale’s flat brushed his skin. It felt a bit awkward to walk about without a stitch of clothing on, for some reason, and Crowley wasted no time to get his stuff from his bag and retreat into the bathroom.

Washing up and putting some clothes on made for a considerable improvement; his black vest and boxers didn’t really cover much, but they made for just the right amount of armour. Crowley came out of the bathroom feeling a bit less vulnerable, and a whole lot less disgusting.

Aziraphale was waiting for him, sitting on the bed with tablets in one hand and a glass in the other. His smile was unbearably tender, as he took Crowley in.

“Here, sweetheart,” he said, offering the glass and the tablets to Crowley. It was a painkiller that Crowley knew well, so he took his usual dosage and washed it down with the cool water. Crowley didn’t really get migraines, but headaches were an unfortunate side-effect of most of his hangovers.

“Drink the whole glass, darling,” Aziraphale encouraged him. “You’ll feel better.”

Crowley was about to scoff at him, when he realised that he was, in fact, parched, and downed the entire glass in one go. Aziraphale took the empty glass and the remaining tablets and brought them back to the kitchen, before getting ready for bed.

Crowley was already under the covers, when Aziraphale came back. He felt the dip of the mattress and a draft against his naked shoulders as Aziraphale slipped under the thick duvet.

“Can I come closer?” Aziraphale whispered, which made no sense at all. He’d been holding and manhandling Crowley for hours, and now he was getting shy. Crowley shrugged, feeling that sort of fanged uneasiness press from under his skin.

“Sure, angel.”

The nickname left his lips without any conscious decision, but it felt sweet on Crowley’s tongue, it felt _right_. It soothed that bristling feeling like a ruffled cat, and Crowley felt muscles unlocking he hadn’t even known were clenched up so tight in the first place.

Aziraphale seemed to pick up on that fragile mood, somehow. He inched closer at a slow, careful pace, until his front was plastered against Crowley’s back. His body felt solid against Crowley’s, warm and comforting and unbearably lovely. Crowley relaxed against him, burrowing his bony spine in Aziraphale’s giving flesh as a solid arm wrapped around his waist.

“Rest, darling,” Aziraphale whispered, pressing his nose against the back of Crowley’s head. “I’m here.”

It should’ve been grating, that condescending tone, but it wasn’t. Crowley felt held by Aziraphale’s voice, like a touch, like a kiss, and did what he was told.

He woke at the sound of his alarm, with weak sunlight filtering through the curtains. He hadn’t even realised he’d fallen asleep, but he obviously had. He felt a bit groggy and still tired, but headache-free. He was cramped from keeping the same position throughout the night, but Aziraphale hadn’t seemed amenable to letting him go. He was still plastered against Crowley’s back, with a proprietary hand splayed across his stomach. He was snoring slightly, his breath warm and a bit tickling against the sensitive skin of Crowley’s nape.

Crowley closed his eyes, trying to process what had happened the night before. It was surprisingly difficult, which was perhaps why he’d always shied away from actually analysing his feelings, instead of neatly sweeping them under the rug. He couldn’t understand why he’d shattered that way, especially after a lovely evening and during a particularly wonderful hand job. He felt that terrible shame threaten to break free again, and he pushed it down, focusing on the weight of Aziraphale’s firm body pressed against his back, instead.

They were supposed to have another bout of glorious sex and fall asleep together. Crowley would’ve been so lucky if Aziraphale wanted to see him again at all, let alone carry on with that relationship of theirs, after he’d gone and butchered their evening so dramatically. Aziraphale had wanted to take home the smooth wanker Anathema had introduced to him that first night, after all. He hadn’t signed up for that sort of rubbish, and it was unfair to dump it on his head unaware after all was said and done. If he decided to drop Crowley like a hot potato, no one would blame him. Least of all Crowley.

His morning brooding was interrupted by a lazy press of warm lips against his nape, as the grip on Crowley’s stomach tightened.

“Good morning, dear,” Aziraphale mumbled. His breath was warm against Crowley’s naked skin, and Crowley breathed in the feeling of being held so tenderly. It soothed something deep inside his chest, and suddenly he couldn’t understand why he’d chafed so dramatically at Aziraphale’s gentleness, the night before. The memory made him wince, and Crowley felt something close to guilt scuttle away under his skin.

“Good morning, angel,” he answered, hand closing around Aziraphale’s.

Aziraphale hummed sleepily in reply, nosing Crowley’s hairline in a way that made his hairs stand on end.

“How are you, darling?” Aziraphale murmured, pressing slow kisses against Crowley’s sleep-warm skin. “How’s your head?”

“Still attached to my neck,” Crowley jokingly replied. His quip was met with a displeased grumble, and Crowley quickly added: “I’m alright. The headache is gone.”

“Good,” Aziraphale sighed. He lapsed back into silence after that brief exchange, and Crowley stalled for a moment before taking the heavy decision of slipping out of Aziraphale’s comfortable bed to brave the cold floor and another day at work. He tried to wriggle free, but Aziraphale expressed his displeasure at that unexpected turn of events by clamping his arms tightly around Crowley’s middle and keeping him exactly where he was.

“Where are you going?” he grumbled against Crowley’s nape. Crowley realised with a stab of pure want that Aziraphale was half-hard against his arse, and lazily grinding down his hips to chase those first sparks of pleasure. “It’s too early to get up.”

“Not for you, apparently,” Crowley couldn’t help but quip, getting a sleepy snort for an answer. “I have to go to work, angel.”

Aziraphale grumbled against his neck again, before begrudgingly loosening his hold. Crowley took advantage of the respite to slip out of bed, before he could be tempted to stay there and have idle morning sex with Aziraphale. Perhaps that was what Aziraphale had in mind for their ‘lazy Saturday morning’, if he hadn’t changed his mind after their botched evening. Crowley didn’t really want to think about that possibility. Not with the phantom press of Aziraphale’s lips still lingering against his skin.

Aziraphale was mostly awake, when Crowley got out of the bathroom. He watched Crowley getting dressed with sleepy eyes, smiling softly when he walked closer to kiss him. Aziraphale stroked Crowley’s freshly-shaved cheeks with a gentle exploratory touch, tracing the shape of his jaw, as he slipped a bit of tongue in his mouth in a drawn-out caress.

“Do you have something nice planned for today, dear?” Aziraphale asked, obviously unwilling to let him go. He was holding Crowley’s hand, and the warmth of the gesture swept over Crowley like the tide. He found himself chuckling at it, so hopelessly fond it hurt.

“I wouldn’t call it _nice_, but I have an interview in Canterbury,” Crowley answered, sitting down on the bed instead of hunching over it at the loud protests of his back. “One of the local churches has a weeping statue of the Holy Mary, or so I’ve been told.”

“I was there once, years ago,” Aziraphale answered, with a gravelly, low voice. “Canterbury is a lovely little city. I can’t see what she has to weep about.”

Crowley couldn’t really help but burst out laughing at that unexpected quip, while Aziraphale gifted him with a smug, sleepy grin.

“You are a naughty thing deep down, aren’t you, angel,” Crowley chuckled. Aziraphale’s eyes were twinkling with a sort of unholy light as he stared right back at him.

“You have no idea.”

“Well, that sounds way too good to pass,” Crowley grinned, because he was only human, and he _was_ curious, after all. He wasn’t sure he really wanted to hear about secret dalliances in some secluded corner of the library, but he’d gladly take whatever Aziraphale was willing to offer. “Tell me about it?”

Aziraphale’s eyes studied him a moment longer, before bringing Crowley’s hand to his lips.

“One day. I promise.”

Crowley blinked, as the levity he’d been expecting failed to make an appearance. Aziraphale seemed deadly serious as he kissed Crowley’s knuckles, and Crowley frowned, the intensity of the moment taking him completely unaware, before Aziraphale pressed Crowley’s palm against his cheek and shattered the tense stillness with a smile.

“Will you tell me about your interview tomorrow over lunch?” Aziraphale asked, looking a bit bashful and a bit hopeful as he looked up at him. “I have a late shift, and I thought we could eat something together before I start.”

“Of course, angel,” Crowley answered, feeling a spike of warmth bloom in his chest at Aziraphale’s delighted smile. He hadn’t been completely sure Aziraphale would want to see him again, let alone so soon. “The usual place?”

“Why not,” Aziraphale said easily, before letting go of Crowley’s hand and swatting his leg. “Go, now, or you’ll be late.”

Crowley couldn’t help but kiss him again at that, and the press of Aziraphale’s lips lingered against his mouth long after he was gone.

* * *

The trip to Canterbury turned out to be a vexing waste of time, or at least it wouldn’t have been, if Aziraphale hadn’t found the entire affair so hilarious. He laughed so hard he actually cried all over his breakfast at Crowley’s disgruntled retelling of his discovery of a local church that built its own miraculous weeping Marys out of some plaster and a hose.

“I couldn’t even spin it out to be some sort of shady business uncovered by a brave journalist and exposed to the public,” Crowley grumbled, as Aziraphale laughed even harder. “The crafty buggers had a _patent_, of all things.”

“Entrepreneurial crooks,” Aziraphale wheezed, using a corner of his napkin to wipe away the tears. “How the mighty have fallen.”

“People actually _know_ about it,” Crowley scoffed, stuffing a slice of bacon in his mouth. “Mass is less boring with a little show on the side.”

“How to blame them,” Aziraphale snorted. “Anglican services are even more tedious than the Catholic haughty blabbering.”

Crowley arched a brow. He’d never thought about touching that particular subject with Aziraphale, but now he was intrigued.

“Not the religious type, I take?”

Aziraphale shrugged.

“I used to be, when I was very young. My family is of the Anglican faith, and Mother used to take us all together to the Christmas and Easter services. I believed in God, I believed in His words. But once you start to view religion as a subject instead of a belief, it takes away some of its magic. And without magic, religion is just a folk tale.”

(Crowley couldn’t remember if he’d ever gone to church in his entire life, but as he tried to picture the happy Fell family strolling together hand in hand to attend a Christmas service he kept having rather unsettling flashbacks of something that looked straight out of _The Sound of Music_, and he decided that the subject was obviously way too disturbing to be investigated any further.)

“You studied religion?” Crowley asked, his curiosity well and truly piqued. They never really got around to talking about Aziraphale’s education, and Crowley realised with a start that he was hungry for everything that made Aziraphale the man he was. He knew so little about Aziraphale’s past, still. He wanted to dig deep enough to hit granite.

“Not exactly,” Aziraphale answered, more focused on his breakfast than his own personal history. “I studied _religions_, plural. I took a course on the development of belief systems and their function in organised societies during my bachelor. It wasn’t exactly Classical Studies material, but I was curious, and the Egyptologists in the lecture room were polite enough not to chase me out with a garden hose.”

Crowley didn’t exactly understand the reference, and his face probably said as much.

“University rubbish,” Aziraphale explained, at Crowley’s puzzled frown. “There is some bad blood amongst the various faculties in the archaeology department. The Egyptologists are a bunch of motion picture enthusiasts who ruin the good name of the department, the Assyriologists are there but no one knows it, and everyone hates the Classicists.”

There was a mischievous glint in Aziraphale’s eyes, and Crowley couldn’t help but grin at him.

“And why is that?”

“Because we are obnoxious nobs, of course,” Aziraphale snickered, startling a loud laugh out of Crowley.

“Anyway,” Aziraphale carried on, “answering your question. I guess I stopped believing when I found out about other religions, other holy books. They’re all stories, in the end. What makes our version truer than the others, or more likely to be real? Besides, the Old Testament holds pretty strong opinions about my... proclivities. I don’t think I’ve ever quite forgiven the Bible for that.”

Aziraphale’s voice dwindled down, as he blinked at Crowley.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” he said, softer than before. “If you do believe, I didn’t mean...”

“No need to fret, angel,” Crowley answered, waving Aziraphale’s concerns away. “Never believed in much. I don’t remember my parents’ faith, but my uncle was indifferent to the entire concept of religion, and I guess it rubbed off on me.”

It was more than he’d ever told anyone in his entire life, and Crowley was startled by how easy it’d come out of his mouth. He looked away, stuffing food in his mouth to cover the stillness of the moment. Aziraphale hummed, seemingly catching up on that.

“How have you been feeling, my dear?” he asked, in a quite atrocious attempt at changing the subject, if Crowley could have a say. “Did you get any more headaches?”

That was a nice way to call his manic tantrums, Crowley had to handle it to the man. He didn’t really want to think about what had happened, just as much he didn’t really want to think about another botched evening, a while before, when he got home to wank himself to oblivion instead of accepting Aziraphale’s company. He didn’t like to remember how stupid he could be, if he really made an effort.

“’m fine, angel,” he grumbled, pushing his cooked beans about the plate. “No need to worry about me.”

“But I do worry about you,” Aziraphale said, and then, like it was nothing, like it wasn’t something that Crowley had been aching to hear for a longer time than he wanted to admit, he added: “I care about you.”

Crowley stared at Aziraphale for a moment, glad for his sunglasses, his heart thumping in his chest and a sort of buzz in his ear. Then he looked away.

“Yes, well,” he grumbled, ready to kick-start his stupid brain with threats of violence, if necessary, “you don’t have to. I’m alright.”

“Will you tell me if you aren’t?”

It was such a harmless question, and yet, it had teeth. For once, Crowley knew exactly what Aziraphale was asking, and was aware of the fact that he was demanding nothing less than a promise. Crowley wasn’t sure he could do it, even if he wanted to. He didn’t want to make a promise he didn’t know he could keep.

“I’ll try,” he settled for, looking down at his plate. He was startled by the gentle touch of Aziraphale’s hand on his own, a tender brush of skin against skin. Aziraphale’s eyes were impossibly fond, as Crowley looked up.

“Thank you, my dear.”

Crowley swallowed hard against a lump in his throat.

“Don’t mention it,” he grumbled, pretending to focus on what was left of his breakfast to avoid the serene gaze of those blue eyes. He was pretty full, but he could chew on some eggs, if the occasion called for it.

“Anyway,” Aziraphale interjected, as he buttered ever so primly a slice of toast, “I don’t think I told you, yet. I took advantage of my day off, yesterday, and went to the clinic.”

Crowley blinked, trying to follow the thread of that conversation to the best of his abilities.

“The clinic?” he repeated, realising just as Aziraphale answered what he’d meant.

“Yes, to get tested,” Aziraphale patiently explained. “I should get my results by the end of the week.”

It hit Crowley, then. Getting tested wasn’t exactly a pleasant experience, it was invasive and time-consuming, and yet Aziraphale had done it for him, because he’d said he would. Crowley wasn’t used to people making time for him, even less going out of their way to follow through on something they’d said they would while they had the prospect of coming in mind.

“Can I see you tomorrow night?” he blurted out, surprising Aziraphale and flooring himself at the same time. “We could have dinner together. If you liked.”

A delighted smile took the place of Aziraphale’s wide-eyed stare for a lovely moment, before turning into a frown. Crowley felt a rising dread pile up in his stomach, and waited for the oncoming blow.

“I have a middle shift tomorrow, I won’t be done until half past seven,” Aziraphale answered, his mouth slightly downturned. “Won’t that be a bit too long of a wait for you? Your shift usually ends at five o’clock.”

“I don’t mind,” Crowley answered quickly, before his brain could tell him that he was being insistent, clingy, _needy_. He just wanted to see Aziraphale again. He realised suddenly that he needed to feel Aziraphale’s hands on his skin more than he cared about his tattered dignity. “I can wait. If... If that’s ok, for you, that is.”

Aziraphale’s soft smile did something to him, cracking open another bit of himself that he’d been carrying around for way too long.

“Of course,” Aziraphale agreed, with such a tender voice that Crowley felt something stick into his throat. “If you don’t mind waiting.” He tilted his head slightly, considering. “I usually have something to eat at work, however, and you shouldn’t wait for me, after such a long day. We could meet for a cup of coffee.”

“Something sweet?” Crowley said, a bit too hopefully for his taste, but Aziraphale’s eyes were twinkling.

“Something sweet. I’ll think of a place.”

* * *

It wasn’t until Crowley got home that evening that it hit him. Aziraphale had agreed to meet him for a cup of coffee; he hadn’t invited him to spend the night.

The thought gave Crowley pause. When people offered Crowley a drink they usually alluded to something completely different, but perhaps Aziraphale had actually meant what he’d said. Crowley had no idea how that relationship business worked, it was a language he barely spoke, and was at a loss on how to read the subtlest nuances.

He could ask Aziraphale, of course. It was what they’d agreed upon. But what if Aziraphale was just humouring him, throwing a bone to the miserable git who had broken into pieces in his living room? He was just nice enough to do that, Crowley knew. He was too kind to point out that they’d been seeing each other for four days in a row, and he’d agreed to something quick after work to make Crowley happy before he could finally get a well-deserved break.

Crowley almost didn’t prepare his overnight bag, but the insistent prod of his wretched hope was too insistent to be ignored. What would be the harm? They were supposed to meet up on Friday, after all, and if he didn’t get to use the bag the following evening it would be ready for the weekend. Better safe than sorry. He wasn’t going to mention spending the night, but if Aziraphale asked him, he had no intention of being surprised unprepared.

His bag eventually found its way to the backseat of his Bentley, but the thought nagged at Crowley the entire night and the following day, drawing quite a few questioning stares from Anathema that he skilfully failed to notice. He shouldn’t have asked. He didn’t really like that feeling of helpless vulnerability, and he disliked the thought of taking for granted Aziraphale’s hospitality. He’d never really cared what other men thought of him blatantly inviting himself in their homes for a shag, but he cared about Aziraphale.

And Aziraphale cared about him. Perhaps it was time to start trusting him, instead of tying himself in knots over something that Aziraphale might or might not think. He’d seemed pretty keen on seeing Crowley as often as his schedule would allow, and it was about time that Crowley took some initiative, instead of letting Aziraphale shoulder all the risk. It was unfair and childish, and even Crowley, in his abysmal ignorance, knew that relationships didn’t work that way.

After the end of his shift, Crowley left his car at work and braved the busy streets to visit a few of his favourite shops. His office was probably one of the nine circles of hell, but the underground car park that belonged to the building was a significant perk. It didn’t make going to work any less dispiriting, but avoiding a morning struggle to find a parking spot in Central London went a long way to make his day more tolerable.

He climbed into his car two hours later with two bags full of high-end fashion clothes that weren’t exactly included in his monthly budget, but that had helped considerably in taking his mind off things. If his purchases ended up hiding completely his travel bag from sight, well, a vintage Bentley had only so much space on its backseats.

It was half past seven on the dot when Crowley parked his car in front of Aziraphale’s workplace. The sky was already dark, but a thin stream of students was trickling in and out of the main doors, seemingly indifferent to the late hour. Bright light was streaming out of the huge windows, and Crowley found himself squinting to try and make out what was going on inside. He was too far away to see clearly (and the sunglasses weren’t particularly helpful in that specific endeavour), but he could spy a few huge shelves and tiny figures fluttering about. He felt a stab of something that was almost envy at the sight, and looked away quickly, staring at the people crowding the bustling street instead. He was so busy in his task that he completely missed Aziraphale’s exit from the main doors, and was startled by the sound of his voice.

“Good evening, my dear.”

Crowley whipped around, finding Aziraphale watching him from the other side of the Bentley with a lovely smile lighting up his face. He looked so genuinely pleased to see him that Crowley felt something loosen a little in his chest, the tight knot of dread he’d been carrying around since the day before. He realised with a start that he hadn’t really believed Aziraphale actually _wanted_ to see him again until that very moment, although he’d buried the thought under a thick layer of hope.

Perhaps he didn’t really need hope, after all.

“Hello, angel,” he replied, uncaring about the softness laced into his voice. Aziraphale’s smile turned even sweeter at that. “Shall we?”

“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale replied, climbing into the Bentley and settling comfortably in the front seat. Crowley pulled into traffic, and then he was driving to one of his favourite underground car parks, not far away from Aziraphale’s building. The tea room where Aziraphale had decided to take them was scarcely five minutes away from Aziraphale’s flat, which Crowley secretly hoped to be a good sign. He could feel his skin pull with the need of being touched, his body yearning for the excruciating intimacy of contact. He wanted to be close to Aziraphale with such strength that it scared him, because that unbearable need should’ve abated by now, but that hunger embedded deep into his flesh seemed to become stronger every time it was being fed.

They ended up sharing a slice of angel cake and chattering about their day, and even if Aziraphale didn’t mention what had happened the previous Sunday, he did ask after Crowley’s headaches. Crowley was a bit embarrassed by the attention, but he dipped his head and answered truthfully that he was all right. Aziraphale smiled brightly at him and changed the subject, for which Crowley was infinitely grateful.

The gentle ebbs and flows of their conversation swirled so naturally that Crowley was a little taken aback to realise that the shop was almost empty, and the waiters were starting to tidy up the floor while giving them pointed looks.

“I think we’d better go now, before they shoo us away with their brooms,” Aziraphale chuckled, standing up and slipping into his coat. He was wearing a pale teal shirt under his usual cream-coloured waistcoat, and his eyes seemed to spark even bluer whenever Crowley took a peek from above the rim of his sunglasses.

Crowley chuckled lowly under his breath and followed suit, slipping into his coat and insisting to pay the bill before stepping out into the cool evening air. He stalled a moment once they reached the pavement, uncertain about the next move, and surreptitiously waiting for Aziraphale to give him some sort of cue before making an utter fool of himself. Their coffee time had been unhelpfully devoid of hints in regard to the rest of their evening, and Crowley was a bit miffed at the confused look Aziraphale threw at him as they stood like a couple of tits outside the barred tea room.

“Is everything all right, dear?” Aziraphale had the nerve to ask, as Crowley stuck his hands into his pockets and desperately waited for some divine inspiration. But God, apparently, was too busy to help him out.

“Er. Yes, of course, just, uh...”

“Yes?”

“Where are we going now?” Crowley blurted out, realising at the same time that he could’ve covered up his blunder by asking if Aziraphale wanted to go somewhere else and perhaps got an answer that way.

Well. Too late now. Especially given the rather puzzled look Aziraphale was aiming at him.

“Home?” he asked, tilting his head. “Unless you wanted to go somewhere else...?”

Crowley scratched his head, wondering how their easy conversation had managed to turn into this awkward blabbering in less than five minutes. _Home_ was a pretty unhelpful answer, as far as answers went. Home as in each to his own, or home as in going to Aziraphale’s flat and hopefully getting shagged for his trouble?

“Er. _Your_ home?”

Aziraphale looked completely confused, now.

“Well. Yes?” A beat, then a deep, uncertain frown. “You don’t have to, if you don’t want to. I just thought... well.”

“Yes, of course I want to!” Crowley blurted out, relief spreading into his chest like a heat wave. “I just, I didn’t know, I, well, uh...”

The whole thing was vaguely embarrassing, even more so with Aziraphale’s stare steadily pointed at him. Crowley could feel the weight of Aziraphale’s attention like a physical thing, an intimate touch that was neither pleasant nor unpleasant.

“You didn’t know...?” Aziraphale prodded him, not unkindly. Luckily enough the shop was closed, and no one was being thwarted in their quest to reach the pavement by a bumbling idiot trying to crawl out of a rather mortifying conversation.

“If you wanted. You know. For me to come over.”

“Of course I do,” Aziraphale answered, now looking almost comically perplexed. “What made you think I didn’t?”

A beat, and then Aziraphale took a sharp breath, his face losing that bewildered look to shift into something closer to chagrin.

“I didn’t ask you to. Is that why?”

Crowley looked away.

“Er. It’s not a big deal, angel. I just didn’t know, well. I didn’t know what to do.”

“No,” Aziraphale interrupted him, taking his hand. “I should’ve been clearer. I am _always_ happy for you to come over. If I’m not able for some reason to keep you there for the night, I’ll tell you. Otherwise, you can take for granted that you’re welcome in my home. You don’t have to wonder.”

His eyes looked huge and sharp in the streetlights, and for a moment it felt like there was no one else trampling up and down the busy road, only Aziraphale, steadily staring at him as though Crowley was the only thing worthy of attention in the entire universe.

It was too much. Crowley held the impossible weight of that absolute focus for a while, feeling the warmth of Aziraphale’s regard sweep over him like a wave, until it threatened to overwhelm the unstable hold he had over his silly self. He tried to look away, but Aziraphale didn’t let him. His gloved hand felt softer than silk against his cheek, deceitfully gentle, but unyielding like a steel trap.

“Is that better, darling?” he asked, low enough that only Crowley could hear him. “When you know without having to wonder, when I speak unambiguously and the meaning of what I say is impossible to misunderstand?”

Crowley couldn’t look away, but he could close his eyes. So he did.

“Yes.”

The firm touch of Aziraphale’s hand on his cheek softened, and then it slipped away in a lingering caress. Crowley opened his eyes, and was met with a soft, secret smile.

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale whispered, cradling Crowley’s naked hand in his own.

“For what?”

“For answering honestly.”

“It’s not a big deal, angel...”

“On the contrary,” Aziraphale insisted. A shrewd look, then his voice turned lower, intimate in a way that made Crowley’s skin pebble in goosebumps: “It _pleases_ me, when you’re honest. When I ask you a question and you think seriously about your answer.”

“It does?” Crowley repeated dumbly, feeling something spark somewhere along his spine, his breathing stutter in his chest. Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully.

“Of course, darling. How else could I understand you?”

Crowley didn’t really know how to answer that, but fortunately he didn’t have to. Aziraphale was tugging at his hand, and Crowley didn’t fight the pull. He didn’t really know how anymore.

“Now, I assume you have to pick up your stuff before we can head home. Where is it that you parked your car?”

Crowley took a deep breath, and led the way.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely people!  
Here, for your entertainment, another monster of a chapter. We have reached and happily barreled through the 150k words threshold, and now I’m just curious to see when exactly I’ll skid past the 200k words landmark with the same grace of a boulder rolling down a cliff. For that reason, I’m raising the chapter count to 30. We’ll see how long _that_ will last.  
Before we start, a bucket of love to [uponwhatgrounds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uponwhatgrounds/pseuds/uponwhatgrounds) for gifting me with an entire _set_ of gorgeous [art pieces](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23873086). I can’t even begin to wrap my mind around this sort of kindness. Thank you, truly. And many thanks as usual to you all, who shower this story with so much love. You are the best bunch an author could ever wish for.  
I hope you’ll enjoy the chapter! <3

There was a light haze floating aimlessly in Crowley’s mind, as Aziraphale pulled him into his flat. He left his bag by the door because Aziraphale instructed him to, and didn’t protest when his coat and scarf were peeled off him and he was gently led to the couch. Aziraphale disappeared to turn on the heating, and he was back soon after with two full cups, a white one with a saucer for himself and a proper mug for Crowley. Crowley had no idea how Aziraphale knew that he preferred thick mugs to those delicate little bone-china things, but he accepted it gratefully.

“Thank you, angel,” he said, realising belatedly that he hadn’t asked for tea, and Aziraphale hadn’t offered. He’d just brought Crowley a steaming mug, filled with the same strong blend from their last botched evening, judging by the scent.

“You’re welcome, darling,” Aziraphale primly replied, sitting by his side. His mind seemed to wander in the same direction taken by Crowley’s, since he added, with a slight frown scrunching up his brows: “I hope you won’t mind the tea. I should’ve asked, perhaps, but...”

Crowley waited for an explanation, but Aziraphale shrugged the rest of the sentence away. He looked vaguely embarrassed, as though he’d realised only too late that he might have overstepped a little.

“It’s alright,” Crowley said, forgoing his usual overthinking. He disliked that look of uncertainty on Aziraphale’s face, and he wasn’t saying anything that wasn’t the truth, after all. “I don’t mind.”

The smile he got in reply was worth every word. Crowley felt it in his heartbeat, as Aziraphale caressed his thigh and left the hand there. The conversation picked up again, but it was stilted, the touch of Aziraphale’s hand on his thigh distracting. Aziraphale would take it away to lift his cup and take a sip at his tea, and Crowley would miss the weight of that hand like a limb, but the pressure burnt through his skin when it returned. From the little looks that Aziraphale kept aiming his way, without even trying to be subtle, Crowley guessed that he knew perfectly well why Crowley’s heart wasn’t really in their lengthy discussion about Regency Era poetry.

“You seem tired, darling,” Aziraphale purred eventually, placing his cup on the cluttered desk and plucking Crowley’s empty mug from his hand. “Perhaps we should go to bed.”

“Hmm,” Crowley hummed, lazily watching Aziraphale place the mug on the desk and then turn to aim a hungry stare at Crowley, as though he wasn’t really sure where he wanted to start touching him. “Perhaps.”

“You were so good, waiting for me in the cold after a long day at work,” Aziraphale purred, sitting close enough for their legs to touch and cradling Crowley’s face in his palm. Crowley had taken off his sunglasses at some point during the evening, and Aziraphale’s blue eyes looked dark and pointed, so up close. “Sit still, and let me help you out of your clothes.”

That sounded like a wonderful idea. Crowley felt the anticipation burn like a comet across his skin, mingled with the electric, slightly unnerving pleasure he’d felt trickling down his spine at the praise. He reached for Aziraphale, going for his waistcoat, but Aziraphale tutted at him.

“No, darling. I said _sit still_. Didn’t I?”

Crowley blinked, a little taken aback. He’d thought that was a line. He hadn’t realised he was supposed to take it to the letter.

“I thought...”

“Yes?”

“I didn’t realise you meant it.”

That seemed to snap Aziraphale out of whatever that charged mood was. He blinked up at Crowley, pulling back slightly and lowering his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he said, rather stiffly. “I got... carried away, I guess.”

Crowley frowned, utterly confused. He wasn’t sure what had happened, but he was pretty certain it was his fault.

“I didn’t mean to say that I don’t _want_ to,” he rushed to explain, without knowing exactly what he was doing but determined to bring them back to whatever was about to happen not one minute before. “I just... er. I didn’t realise that was an... instruction.”

That was the right word for it, he felt it in his bones, but it sounded so silly out loud. Crowley grimaced, glancing away, but the firm weight of Aziraphale’s hand on his chest reeled in his attention like a veritable fishing rod.

“Is that something that you’d like, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, and there was a fierceness to his voice that Crowley had seldom heard before, something strong and harsh and a little desperate, like strangled hope. Something that he intimately understood. “You said that you don’t mind being told what to do. Is that something that you would _enjoy_, though?”

At last, something clicked in Crowley’s mind, a revelation that was incredibly underwhelming only because it’d been obvious from the start. Crowley felt it in his bones, in the subtle rippling of his skin, like a tremor beneath the ground.

“You _like_ it,” he said, a startled note in his voice. “You like telling me what to do.”

Aziraphale blinked away, a suspended, shuddering moment, before his eyes went back to boring holes in Crowley’s. He licked his lips, the tip of his tongue pink and wet in the dim lights. He looked delectable, and he looked sharp, tense in a way that belied the softness of his body, the tenderness of his touch as he petted Crowley’s chest.

“_Yes_,” he admitted, studying Crowley’s face as though he was reading a poem off his skin. “But the question is, would _you_ like me to tell you what to do?”

Crowley felt his trapped breath flutter into his throat like a caged bird, as Aziraphale’s words swirled into his mind. He realised with sudden clarity that most of their interactions had revolved around Aziraphale taking charge of the situation and gently guiding Crowley through it. Aziraphale had done that from the start, consciously or not, and Crowley had let himself be led, be _handled_, whether that was a shared meal or extremely satisfying sex. It was one of the reasons Crowley felt so at ease with him, that sense of security, that impossible _calm_ that seemed to ooze out of Aziraphale’s skin like a scent, thick and intoxicating. Aziraphale had dictated the rhythm of their interactions from the very beginning, and Crowley had followed on an instinct, happy to have the unbearable weight of decision taken away from him.

It was childish behaviour, yes, and cowardly to boots, but it soothed something hidden deep inside his chest, being directed, instead of floundering about trying to find his way into the jungle. And if Aziraphale actually _enjoyed_ leading, if taking the rein of someone as chaotic as Crowley was something he truly _liked_...

Well, then. It seemed they were even more compatible than Crowley had previously thought.

He swallowed thickly, thinking about an answer. It was difficult to find the right measure of honesty, with the weight of that abrupt realisation pressing down on him and Aziraphale’s proximity pulling at his skin like a hook, and Crowley gave up on it entirely the moment Aziraphale’s words rang like a chime into his brain.

_It _pleases_ me, when you’re honest. When I ask you a question and you think seriously about your answer._

Suddenly, finding the right amount of honesty seemed irrelevant, in the face of Aziraphale’s approval. Crowley wanted to please him more than linger on whatever worries his overactive brain managed to churn out. The realisation that nothing really mattered as much as Aziraphale’s pleasure crashed over him like high tide, washing away everything in its wake.

“I think,” he said, voice low and a little strained, as though he’d just woken up from a long sleep, “I think I’d like that. Being told what to do.”

Aziraphale’s sharp inhale echoed in the silence like a bang. His eyes looked huge as they raked over Crowley’s face, hopeful and dark and almost violently hungry.

“What else would you like, darling?” he whispered, his hand cradling Crowley’s neck in a way that sparked a shudder down his spine, thumb digging into the vulnerable spot just underneath Crowley’s jaw. “Being told how _good_ you are when you comply? Or punished when you don’t?”

Crowley’s stomach dropped at the words, at the impossible heat dripping from each and every one of them. He felt something _tug_ deep inside him, like a riot in his blood, and let out a shuddering breath as he realised rather vaguely that he was gripping Aziraphale’s waistcoat for dear life. He was painfully hard, throbbing cock pressing against the tight constraint of his jeans, and aching in a way he could feel spreading from his balls to his arse, a confusion of sensory responses.

“I... I don’t know,” he breathed out, Aziraphale’s voice doing things to his brain that he couldn’t even begin to understand. It was difficult to process concepts when he was so dramatically turned on, his body screaming with the impossible need to be touched, his thoughts scattered like birds on a beach. He’d do anything, _say_ anything to get Aziraphale’s hands on his cock, but that impossible craving to _please_ Aziraphale was howling even louder. Aziraphale wanted him to be honest, and Crowley would be as honest as he could. “Punished? I... I’m not sure...”

“Ssh,” Aziraphale shushed him sweetly, realising that Crowley was working himself up trying to find an answer before Crowley himself did. “I’m sorry, darling. That was too much.”

Crowley felt the touch of Aziraphale’s hand on his cheek like a kiss, and leant gratefully into it, eyes fighting to stay open as his skin shuddered with need.

“No, I, just... ah. I think...” He licked his lips, vaguely realising that Aziraphale’s huge blue eyes were tracking every movement. “I like it. When you tell me, ah, tell me that I’m... good.”

It was such a mortifying thing to say. It sounded puerile and a bit pitiful, something that a child or a dog might crave to hear. It was also true.

“Oh,” Aziraphale sighed, stroking Crowley’s cheek over and over, as though he was handling something impossibly precious. “I thought you might, but I wasn’t sure if I was... projecting. You know. Wishful thinking.”

Crowley closed his eyes, something embarrassingly close to a whine trembling in his throat. He could feel the pounding of his heart into his temples, his skin so hot it felt right about to melt off his flesh. He was sweating in his clothes, and itching, and he needed Aziraphale’s hands on him with the violence of a bite.

“Angel. _Please_.”

The shuddering pleading seemed to hit Aziraphale like a slap, something sharp flickering into his eyes as he cradled Crowley’s face into his palms and kissed him, deeply, lingering. A claiming kiss, like the period at the end of a sentence. Crowley felt the proprietary tenderness of it vibrate into his very bones.

“Very well, my darling boy,” Aziraphale whispered, pulling back just enough to stare at his face with dark, steely eyes. “Will you sit still? For me?”

Crowley let his eyes fall shut, giving up on any attempt to fight gravity. His mind felt sluggish, almost drugged, except that not even weed relaxed him as much as having the chance of fucking up being taken away from him. He didn’t have to worry anymore. He could and _would_ be good for Aziraphale. Nothing else mattered. Not even the vague mortification he felt sizzling under the sticky ease at finding directions so impossibly soothing.

“Yes,” he answered, a little belatedly, when nothing happened. He vaguely remembered that Aziraphale actually expected him to answer his questions, and Crowley had every intention of pleasing him.

“_Very_ good,” Aziraphale crooned, sparking a shiver across Crowley’s skin. He felt the press of Aziraphale’s lips against the jut of his jaw, and the back of stocky fingers running down his throat. “Keep your eyes closed, yes. Relax. Let me take care of you.”

The touch, the words, punched a groan out of Crowley’s chest. He felt his hands twitch, but he kept carefully still, his palms pressed obediently against the worn-out seat of the couch. He tried to breathe through the ache in his balls, in his cock, as Aziraphale peppered lingering kisses down his neck and up to his ear while slowly undoing Crowley’s tie. There was something in the attentive way Aziraphale handled him that turned Crowley brutally on, something that reached so deep it felt like a tug in his belly. He barely felt the slide of his tie off his neck, and gasped softly at the press of Aziraphale’s teeth against the hard shell of his ear as Aziraphale started to unbutton his shirt.

Crowley was barely thinking anymore, by the time Aziraphale pulled Crowley’s hands on his lap and gently undid the cufflinks, before sliding the shirt off Crowley’s shoulders. It took him a bit of a struggle to get rid of it, but Crowley’s limbs were too heavy and uncooperative to do much in the way of helping out. Then cold air was hitting his naked skin, and Crowley felt his nipples pebble, sweat cooling rapidly over his chest.

“I don’t think I’ll ever tire of looking at you, darling,” Aziraphale whispered, running a proprietary hand from Crowley’s sternum to his navel. He played a little with the loose skin of his bellybutton, then thumbed the sparse hairs under it while pulling at one of Crowley’s nipples with his teeth. Crowley arched his back at the pressure, the subtle pain fizzling along his nerve endings like electricity. Aziraphale kissed both his nipples and then nuzzled at his chest hairs, hands skimming lower and unbuttoning Crowley’s jeans atrociously slowly.

Crowley sucked in air in gulps at the easing pressure on his constricted cock, and tried to help at the best of his abilities as Aziraphale pulled his jeans and pants down to middle-thigh. It was a tricky thing to do with his eyes closed, but he didn’t think he could open them now, even if he’d wanted to. The darkness was soothing and it sparked like fireworks behind his heavy lids, and Crowley felt oddly safe in it, as though the world had gone somewhere far away and only the immediate touch of Aziraphale’s hands on him had stayed. He could feel the chafing of Aziraphale’s clothes on the naked skin of his right arm, the brush of his shirt, the cold texture of the buttons on his waistcoat. They were all the remainders he needed about the world, such as it was.

“Oh, darling,” Aziraphale sighed, running a thumb down Crowley’s straining shaft and making him keen. “That looks painful. Does it hurt, sweetheart?”

Crowley could barely _breathe_, let alone think. He knew what Aziraphale was doing, his own peculiar brand of dirty talking, but he was too busy trying to suck in air through the violent spasms of need and arousal coursing through his bloodstream to do more than arch his back and stutter out a whine at that dreamy whisper.

“It does, darling, doesn’t it?” Aziraphale cooed, curling his hand around Crowley’s cock and giving it a slow, blessed pull. “How’s that, dearest? Any better?”

“_Yes_,” Crowley managed to hiss through clenched teeth, feeling the pleasure of the touch mix with the heady high that Aziraphale’s voice was carefully crafting, swirling in his brain like a chemical cocktail. “Don’t stop.”

Aziraphale tutted, the subtle note of displeasure in his voice slithering uncomfortably across Crowley’s skin.

“I think I’ll be the judge of that, darling,” Aziraphale chided him, though the steady pulls on Crowley’s cock didn’t even slow down. “You are so sensitive. I must be careful not to hurt you.”

As if to stress a point, he rubbed his thumb into Crowley’s slit, making him buck his hips. Crowley waited for a rebuke with growing unease, but Aziraphale didn’t acknowledge his failure to comply with his request, and chuckled softly against Crowley’s jaw instead.

“See?” Aziraphale purred, curling an arm around Crowley’s waist to hold him close. “Sensitive. Delicate all over, and responding so beautifully to every touch.”

Aziraphale nipped at Crowley’s jaw, his steady pulls never wavering, never speeding up. Crowley felt sparks of pleasure frisson down his spine, cock leaking over Aziraphale’s closed fist. His thighs were trembling with the strain of keeping still, his scrunched brows starting to hurt. He dug his fingers into the soft padding of the couch and felt his toes curling in his boots as Aziraphale twisted his wrist on the upward stroke, thumb rubbing lovingly against the underside of Crowley’s cockhead.

“People have handled you carelessly, haven’t they?” Aziraphale whispered in his ear. He halted the motion of his hand, heedless of Crowley’s cry of protest, and slipped lower, forcing Crowley’s trembling thighs apart as far as they’d go within the constrict of his lowered jeans and gently fingering his balls. “They didn’t know what they had, didn’t know what to do with you. But I do. I’ll be so careful with you, darling.”

It sounded like a promise, so sweet and so violently erotic all at once that Crowley could do nothing but keen pitifully at the onslaught. Aziraphale kissed his jaw once more, gently cradling Crowley’s balls in the palm of his hand for a moment longer before letting him go.

Crowley whined at the lack of touch, struggling to keep still with his eyes closed when he wanted to reach out and bring Aziraphale back. But he’d been told to sit still, and so he would.

“How good you are, how perfect,” Aziraphale praised him, the words dripping like melted gold on Crowley’s skin. “Shall we go to bed? We’ll be more comfortable, there.”

Crowley inhaled deeply, too hazy to do more than nodding. Aziraphale hummed softly, cradling Crowley’s face in his hands.

“You can open your eyes now, dearest,” Aziraphale crooned, and Crowley was treated with the most beautiful smile he’d ever seen when he forced his heavy lids to comply. “There you are. Your eyes are so lovely, such a warm shade of brown. They look almost golden, in the right light.”

Crowley blinked up at him, his mind silent for once, busy with the feeling of his skin pulled way too tight over his flesh. Aziraphale kissed the tip of Crowley’s nose, his forehead, his cheeks, his chin.

“I’ll take care of your clothes, now, and then we’ll go to bed,” Aziraphale informed him, matter of fact. Crowley nodded wordlessly, which seemed to be as good a permission as any, since Aziraphale went straight down to business. Crowley reeled a little at the perfunctory, almost heedless way Aziraphale disposed of his clothes, after how carefully he’d been up to then, but apparently he disliked being away from Crowley’s skin just as much as Crowley did. His boots were pushed aside without much thought, and then he was fighting to stay on the couch as his jeans were tugged off his legs together with his pants. His socks joined the heap of his clothes on the settee, and then Aziraphale was pulling him on his feet with considerably more tenderness he’d used to get rid of his clothes.

It felt a bit strange to be up again, his mind struggling to follow so many sensorial inputs after being quieted so thoroughly. Not that Aziraphale really wanted him to. He promptly burrowed himself against Crowley’s side, an arm wrapped around his waist, keeping him upright with a hold that was steady and a lot firmer than it really needed to be.

“Come, darling,” Aziraphale purred, guiding him through the difficult narrow path between the encroaching piles of books littering the floor. It was difficult to walk about with an uncomfortable hard-on aching between his thighs and bobbing at every step, and Crowley put his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders and let himself be led.

Soon he was sitting on Aziraphale’s bed, staring at him as Aziraphale quickly got rid of his own shoes and unbuttoned his cufflinks. Crowley’s breath stuttered in his chest at the sight of Aziraphale methodically rolling one of his sleeves up his forearm, showing off soft skin and almost-invisible hairs as white as down and more definition that he had any right to have.

Crowley realised that Aziraphale was putting up a show only when he found in himself the strength to look away from that naked forearm to spy a smug smile on Aziraphale’s lips. He knew he should’ve probably said something about that, some snarky remark, but he couldn’t think of anything right now. Besides, with arms like _that_, Aziraphale had every right to be smug about it. And then some.

“I would like to use my fingers now, dear,” Aziraphale rumbled, apparently focused on the sleeve that he was oh-so-slowly rolling up his other arm. He looked imposing like that, standing in front of a sitting Crowley, and Crowley realised that it was a calculated move only when he felt the subtle spark of it ignite his skin. “I would like for you to climax on them alone, if you’re amenable.”

Crowley swallowed thickly. He remembered the last time Aziraphale had fingered him, deeply, almost painfully intimately, and had little doubt that Aziraphale could make him come without any other source of stimulation. He felt his cock twitch at the thought.

“Alright. Yes. Sure.” Crowley swallowed again, rubbing his sweaty palms against his naked thighs, feeling the brush of that impossible arousal swirl deep under his skin. He blinked up to the sight of Aziraphale’s eyes, racking up and down his frame like a touch. He licked his lips. “_Please_.”

Aziraphale inhaled sharply at that, even if he tried to hide how much it had affected him. Crowley felt too hazy to meditate at length on that specific reaction, but he filed it away for later. Aziraphale seemed to know just so many of Crowley’s buttons that it was only fair for Crowley to know some of Aziraphale’s, too.

“Very well,” Aziraphale said, his rumbling voice almost a growl. “Lie down on the towel, then. Belly down.”

Crowley looked around, and realised there _was_ a towel on the bed. He hadn’t even noticed it, which was a bit alarming, since it was a huge thing, glaring blue, against the pale backdrop of Aziraphale’s tartan-coloured sheets.

He took a shuddering breath and complied, taking a moment to readjust his aching cock under his belly. He sighed in relief at how soft the towel was. His cock felt way too sensitive to be rubbed against rough cloth. He propped his chin on his crossed arms and waited.

It took Aziraphale a long moment to get a move on. Crowley started to squirm a little at the pressure against his cock, rolling his hips to get at least some partial relief, and turned his head to see what the hang-up was. There didn’t seem to be any. Aziraphale was simply standing by the bed, staring at him in silence with wide eyes, those delicious naked forearms in display. Crowley wriggled his hips in what he hoped was a suggestive move, and pillowed his cheek on his forearm.

“You coming, angel?” he purred, glad to have found some of his dubious charm back. Aziraphale tore his eyes from his naked back and arse and shot him a rather cross glare.

“I thought you were being good for me, darling,” Aziraphale chided him, but climbed onto the bed anyway. The mattress gave a little under his weight, and Crowley stretched his limbs, feeling light in a way he hadn’t felt in years.

“I am,” he answered, his previous mortification sliding away like a layer of skin being shed. It was difficult to feel embarrassed about something that Aziraphale was so obviously enjoying. “You told me to lie down. You didn’t tell me to shut up.”

“Naughty boys don’t get their reward,” Aziraphale admonished him, but with no bite. Crowley burst into laughter at that, which made Aziraphale wince, but his smile was back in place well before Crowley could worry about it.

“Is that what I am? Your naughty boy?” Crowley purred, reaching out with a hand and trying to convey that he was laughing _with_ Aziraphale, not _at_ him. Aziraphale seemed to read that easily enough, since he brought Crowley’s hand to his lips and gently kissed his knuckles.

“If you want to be,” he quietly answered, which was a bit too complicated an answer for Crowley to unpack while he was lying there with his naked arse in the air and a painful erection trapped under his belly.

Luckily enough, Aziraphale didn’t seem to expect a reply. He let go of Crowley’s hand with a parting kiss and went to rummage about the drawer on his night table until he emerged with a tube of lube. He dropped the lube on the bed and stroked a hand along Crowley’s spine, up and down, until Crowley melted under the attention. It was such a lovely way to be touched, and Crowley allowed himself to feel the pleasure of it. He crossed his arms under his cheek and closed his eyes, relaxing under Aziraphale’s palm.

“Like that, darling,” Aziraphale crooned, sweeping his hand down the small of Crowley’s back and squeezing his arse for a moment before caressing him all the way back to his nape. “Take a deep breath. Slowly. Let go.”

Crowley complied, his chest expanding at the deep inhale. He felt a lush wave of calm wash over him, so thick it was almost sticky, and as he slowly exhaled he felt Aziraphale’s hand slowing down on the small of his back, a probing finger slipping down his crease. He sighed softly at the feeling of his cheeks being parted, of Aziraphale’s dry index rubbing against his hole. His cock twitched appreciatively at the spark of pleasure the touch ignited, and he pressed slightly against the delicate fingertip stretching his rim ever so slightly.

“The glorious beauty of you,” Aziraphale whispered, splaying one hand between Crowley’s shoulder blades as he rubbed his index against Crowley’s hole and perineum, making him twitch and thrust his aching cock against the towel. Aziraphale wasn’t pressing him down, exactly, but he was keeping him in place, and Crowley felt a frisson of heat burn across his nerve endings at the thought.

He was steadily grinding his cock against the mattress and muffling his groans into the hollow between his crossed arms when Aziraphale slowed down his insistent rubbing and eventually pulled away. Crowley whined at the loss, gulping down a shallow breath as his skin pebbled all over. His balls were aching, his prick was painfully hard, and he felt distressingly empty. He instinctively spread his legs, relishing the shift and pull of muscles around his hole, and heard Aziraphale inhale sharply. He peered at him for the first time in what felt like ages, and realised that Aziraphale was hard in his pressed pants, flushed from the tip of his ears all the way down to his neck, and that he was still perfectly dressed as he knelt beside him on the bed, his rolled-up sleeves the only deviation from the norm. The realisation hit Crowley like a punch, deep in his stomach, and he thought wildly for a moment that he wouldn’t be able to see Aziraphale’s bowtie ever again without getting a hard-on.

“Are you ready for my fingers, dear?” Aziraphale hummed, cranking up Crowley’s shuddering anticipation another notch. His thumb was rubbing the lube against his fingertips to warm it up, and Crowley groaned at the sight, his arse lifting slightly from the bed before his hips snapped forward. Aziraphale eyed him appreciatively for a moment longer, then splayed his clean hand between Crowley’s shoulder blades and pushed him down.

That careful, pointed application of strength punched a groan straight out of Crowley’s throat. He had to use his knees to compensate for his trapped elbows, and that meant raising his ass higher, spreading his thighs wider, as his hips grinded steadily against the towel.

He knew what was to come, but he was still not prepared for the slick nudge of Aziraphale’s index against his hole. He keened at the steady touch, nerve endings coming alive in a burning loop fed directly into his cock. He barely slowed down in his thrusts as he felt the pressure grow, his muscles forced to make space, and then the steady drag of Aziraphale’s finger against his walls, thick and reaching so wondrously deep. His hips stuttered in their stubborn grinding as he clenched around the intrusion, engaging every single muscle group he had to feel the girth of Aziraphale’s index inside of him.

“Yes, my darling boy,” Aziraphale hissed, impossibly close, as he pulled halfway out and then thrust back inside in a slow, dizzying slide. “Squeeze down on it. Feel my finger inside of you. You needed it, didn’t you?”

Crowley groaned, deep and shuddering. He did need it, but he hadn’t known until then that he did. He hadn’t realised how empty he felt until the drag of Aziraphale’s finger inside his body had sparked every nerve alight, like an electric rod being hit by a thunderbolt. It was a deeply seated, primeval need, something with claws and fangs hunting into the woods. Aziraphale pulled out and then in again, in in in, and Crowley keened, rubbing his wilting cock against the sheet, riding a pleasure so violent it was almost painful.

“You can take one more, darling, can’t you?” Aziraphale crooned, his left hand stroking Crowley’s back up to his nape, while his right pressed the tip of its middle finger against Crowley’s hole, corkscrewing it slowly inside alongside the index. “Like that, yes. Slowly, slowly.”

Crowley wailed, a broken, keening sound, as Aziraphale’s pointed words pierced inside him the same way his fingers were breaching his rim, thick and wide, demanding space. Aziraphale shushed him, tenderly brushing his knuckles against the line of Crowley’s jaw as his fingers pressed so deeply inside that Crowley felt the punch of that firm push in his teeth.

Then Aziraphale pressed down, with obvious intent, rubbing against Crowley’s walls as he pushed his fingers in as far as they could go. And when he found what he was looking for, Crowley’s body lit up like a light bulb, electricity misfiring along his nerve endings as he keened into the pillow. His hips bucked forward into the cramped space, a somewhat stuttering thrust that betrayed obvious uncertainty about whether pulling away or pushing onto the fingers prodding at his prostate was the way to go, as his hands shot out to grab at the pillowcase with fingers like claws.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Aziraphale purred softly. He was hovering over him, shadow cast above Crowley’s helpless body in a way that sparked a shudder along his spine. “Let yourself have this. My beautiful darling.”

Crowley sobbed into the pillow, his hips finding an uneasy rhythm between the heavy grinding into the mattress and the pointed thrusts against Aziraphale’s fingers. He was swinging madly between the two points of pressure, pleasure spiking and crashing in waves all over him, dancing along his skin, yanking shuddering keens out of his throat. He felt deliciously full, nailed between Aziraphale’s fingers buried deep inside of him and the steady hold Aziraphale was keeping against his nape. He felt grounded, in a way that was almost painfully soothing.

“You are doing so well, my dear,” Aziraphale encouraged him, screwing his fingers inside Crowley with impossible precision, rubbing his prostate mercilessly at every deep thrust. Crowley bit the pillow with a wail and pushed back, slamming the tips of Aziraphale’s fingers against his prostate, then shoving his cock into the mattress. He was fully hard again, aching and chasing his release with a hint of desperation.

“Do you feel me deep inside, darling?” Aziraphale crooned, his voice breathy, unsteady, charged like a battery. “Filling you up, keeping you spread open for my pleasure? And what a pleasure it is, seeing you like this. Will you come for me, sweetheart?”

“_Angel_,” Crowley managed to choke out between clenched teeth, and then everything went silent, a white noise washing the world away as Crowley came and came, hips stuttering but still pushing, still thrusting, milking his orgasm until there was nothing left. He collapsed onto the towel then, a panting mess, abused muscles shuddering as he came down. He felt Aziraphale gently begin to pull out, and without any input from his brain he whined brokenly at the loss.

The cry was enough to stop Aziraphale on his tracks. Crowley was still gasping for air so loud that he almost missed Aziraphale’s sharp inhale, but his fingers were still halfway inside, his hand still pressed against Crowley’s nape.

“Would you like to feel my fingers for a while longer, darling?” Aziraphale murmured, something rasping and almost feral in his voice. Crowley shuddered at the tone, at the voice, incapable of processing the violent spike of arousal shimmering into his bloodstream, so soon after his orgasm.

He was beyond reason, right then. Beyond embarrassment. His mind hazy, far off, and his body way too close, way too loud. His skin was screaming in tongues.

“Yes,” he could only answer. It was the truth, and he was too tired and spent to lie.

Aziraphale sighed, a trembling sound, and pushed his fingers back all the way inside. The lube had dried out almost completely, and the drag was nearly painful against the oversensitive skin of his twitching hole, but Crowley relished the feeling of being full once again, being held, even as he whined at the sting.

“Do you need anything else, sweetheart?” Aziraphale murmured, caressing his back with the hand that wasn’t currently fingering his arse. He was being careful with the penetration, keeping his fingers still and away from Crowley’s prostate, trying to minimise the discomfort. Crowley’s heart broke a little at that, for some reason, at how tenderly Aziraphale was treating him. He was stroking the crease of Crowley’s arse with his thumb, over and over, and Crowley wondered if he was still hard, if he was aching.

He cracked an eye open, looking up at Aziraphale.

“I want to suck you off,” he grunted, fighting to slow down his panting breaths, to hear anything beyond the wild rush of the blood in his temples. His heart was taking its time to calm down, thudding painfully against his ribcage, and his skin was just starting to cool off, sweat breaking in dewy beads all over his body.

Aziraphale sucked in a breath at Crowley’s words. He looked huge like that, hovering over Crowley as he kept him down, kept him _in place_, white hair flaming like holy fire around his head against the backdrop of the ceiling lights. He looked ethereal and terrible, the way angels were supposed to look in the Old Testament. He looked impossibly beautiful, and obscenely hard. Crowley felt a stab of hunger as he eyed the erection straining Aziraphale’s pants, and licked his lips reflexively. He’d been thinking about getting Aziraphale’s lovely cock into his mouth since the very first moment he’d seen it, and he suddenly couldn’t remember the last time he’d blown someone. It was a sure sign that it’d been way too long. And that was _Aziraphale_. Crowley wasn’t sure he would survive being told how _good_ he was while choking on his cock.

“All right,” Aziraphale breathed out, correctly taking Crowley’s increasingly restless shifting as a sign that his tender touches, while still greatly appreciated, were not necessary anymore. Crowley hissed at the drag of Aziraphale’s fingers slipping out of him, and took a moment to feel empty and bereft before slithering up to Aziraphale on his belly and pawing at his thighs with obvious intent. Aziraphale felt wonderful under Crowley’s palms, firm and obscenely warm, and Crowley relished the solidity of his body as he pushed his hands higher, aiming for his belt.

That was the moment Aziraphale stopped him with a gentle brush of fingers across the back of his hand.

“Let me get a prophylactic first, darling,” he murmured, and _prophylactic_ shouldn’t have sounded as unfairly hot as that. It should also not have been in that sentence at all.

“A condom? Why?” Crowley whined, trying again to reach for Aziraphale’s belt and getting his hands trapped against Aziraphale’s thighs for his trouble.

“If you want to use your mouth on me,” Aziraphale carefully enunciated, apparently unimpressed with any sort of dirty talk that wasn’t his own specific brand, “we’ll do it properly, in a way that’s safe for you. I still haven’t received my test results. Until then, there won’t be another way.”

“That’s all right, angel, I trust you,” Crowley purred, trying to get his hands back, but Aziraphale’s displeased scoff worked like magic to hold him still.

“However lovely that sentiment is, your trust would be poorly rewarded indeed, if I allowed you to put yourself in danger.”

Crowley frowned, trying and failing to ignore the way his guts twisted at the unhappy curl of Aziraphale’s mouth.

“What are you saying, angel? With a condom or not at all?”

“Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Crowley grumbled at the unfairness of that (Aziraphale had got to blow him without a condom, after all!) and pulled back a little. Aziraphale let him go with something suspiciously close to a fond chuckle, and got up to his feet. Crowley watched him leave the bed with a heartfelt dismay that was probably no trouble at all to read off his face, since Aziraphale chuckled again.

“You’re filthy, darling. I’ll get something to clean you up while you think about it.”

Crowley didn’t deign to recognise the truth of either statement, but he did roll away from the dirty towel, staring up at the ceiling with something that was absolutely not a disappointed pout. He hated sucking on the bloody plastic, and that was _Aziraphale_, not some random man Crowley had picked up in a bar without the slightest idea about where he’d stuck his cock before slamming it down Crowley’s throat. He also knew that further discussion would be pointless, since he was able to spot that specific stubborn look in Aziraphale’s eyes from miles away by now, but he _really_ wanted to find for himself what Aziraphale’s cock tasted like.

He was still rolling the problem rather uselessly in his mind when Aziraphale came back with a wet cloth in hand, and Crowley spread his legs without being told as Aziraphale climbed back onto the mattress. Aziraphale’s eyes looked dark as he took in the pretty picture of Crowley with his bent legs open wide, but he didn’t say anything as he settled between them, tenderly rubbing the cloth against Crowley’s hole before wiping away the sticky traces of come from his belly. The towel had taken the brunt of his orgasm, but Crowley wouldn’t say no to something that Aziraphale so obviously enjoyed, and he wasn’t entirely unaffected either at being tended to so gently.

He was propped up on his elbows when Aziraphale came back, after having disposed of the dirty cloth and towel, and looked him up and down with a smirk as Aziraphale arched a brow.

“Well?” Aziraphale asked, looking decidedly less ruffled than before and annoyingly himself. “Have you reached a decision?”

“Hmm. You could start by taking off your clothes.”

Aziraphale’s other brow joined the first at his hairline. He seemed to be on the verge of saying something to that request, but then he thought better of it.

“Very well,” he simply answered, padding on socked feet to the armchair in the corner. He undid his bowtie and unbuttoned his waistcoat without rushing or lingering, with maddening practicality, and after having carefully arranged them both on the chair he went to work on his shirt. He was giving his back to Crowley, which was all the same, really, because Aziraphale’s strong shoulders were a rather lovely view, just like the straight line of his back and the glorious swell of his arse. His well-padded body couldn’t really hide the strength of muscles underneath, and Crowley felt suddenly the need to touch with a fanged violence.

“Come here, angel,” he whined, already forgetting his plans of being difficult and bossy with the sole aim of being annoying. Aziraphale turned with a smirk, and the bastard took the time to fold his trousers and pants _and_ socks before joining Crowley onto the bed.

Crowley made a grab for Aziraphale’s delicious arms before he was even halfway there, and dragged him close the rest of the way. Aziraphale was chuckling under his breath as Crowley pulled himself up for a kiss, sweet and messy and with way too much tongue, but despite his orgasm Crowley was a little too wound up to apply much finesse. He kissed Aziraphale deep, relishing the taste of him, and Aziraphale hummed in his mouth before finding Crowley’s arse with a wandering hand and fondling it rather enthusiastically. He felt wonderfully warm against Crowley’s naked skin, and Crowley basked into the proximity and the touch as he sank a hand into Aziraphale’s cotton-tuft hair. He pushed the other lower, cupping a pec and thumbing one of Aziraphale’s pink nipples until it peaked, while nuzzling the soft skin under his jaw and breathing Aziraphale’s scent in. Aziraphale sighed at the touch, but didn’t protest, allowing Crowley a bit of exploration of his own as he squeezed one of Crowley’s arsecheeks in his palm and caressed his flank soothingly with the other hand.

Aziraphale seemed partial to having his nipples played with, and his neck had a few sensitive spots on which Crowley definitely didn’t mind spending some time. He realised belatedly that he didn’t really know where Aziraphale was most receptive of touch, and that was an unspeakable shame, especially with how expertly Aziraphale handled him. Crowley sucked a trail of biting kisses from Aziraphale’s throat to his pecs, and sucked a nipple into his mouth as his hands pushed lower, tracing the shape of Aziraphale’s slightly rounded belly to finger the sweet spots where his torso met his thighs.

“You have such a clever mouth on you, my darling boy,” Aziraphale grunted, threading his fingers through Crowley’s hair to keep him where he wanted him, with his lips and teeth worrying the silky texture of Aziraphale’s pebbled nipple.

It was all the encouragement Crowley needed. He pushed his hands lower still, taking hold of Aziraphale’s erection and pulling gently at it. Aziraphale groaned softly at the touch, and Crowley set one hand to work at the base, while the other stroked with intent the rest of the shaft and the flared head. Aziraphale’s cock felt hard and silky-smooth against his palms, piping hot and twitchy under the attention. Crowley pulled at Aziraphale’s nipple with his teeth before slowly letting it go, staring up at Aziraphale’s face with eyes open wide.

“I want to taste you,” he purred, hand twisting around Aziraphale’s cockhead as the other shifted lower, palming his balls. Aziraphale’s hairs were a bit softer there, and his fleshy sack was wondrously heavy in Crowley’s hand. Crowley felt a stab of want, mouth watering at the thought of sucking on that paper-thin skin, of feeling the weight of it on his tongue.

“You will,” Aziraphale ground out, fingers twisting almost painfully in Crowley’s hair. “But not today.”

Crowley smirked at him, sharp and wicked. He could feel Aziraphale’s resolve starting to waver, his control fissuring in places like a broken mirror.

“Yes. Today. Right now.”

He hadn’t expected to be wrong. He had expected even less to feel the steely grip of Aziraphale’s hands on his wrists, holding him still, or the way his forehead scrunched up into a frown. The surprise was enough to make him loosen his grip, and Aziraphale wasted no time to pull Crowley’s hands away, and shove him into the mattress with such an easy strength that Crowley felt a flare of arousal sizzle down his spine like an electric shock.

Crowley found himself lying on his back on Aziraphale’s bed, with his hands pinned against the mattress and Aziraphale looming heavy and unmoving above him, without having any idea how he got there. But he didn’t mind it one bit.

“I said,” Aziraphale enunciated, slowly and pointedly, “not today.”

Crowley swallowed thickly at the proximity, at the feeling of being trapped under Aziraphale’s sturdy body, and even more so at the unyielding, almost predatory aura coming off Aziraphale in waves. He could feel his heart thump wildly in his chest, blood rushing to his temples. It was way too soon for his cock to get hard again, but it twitched in sympathy at the onslaught of dizzying hunger that washed over him.

Aziraphale’s eyes were narrowed as he looked down at Crowley, and dark. There was a flush rising to his cheeks, spreading down to his chest, and his cock was hard and perfectly curved under his belly, hovering close to Crowley’s hip.

It hit Crowley, then. It wasn’t just about being overly protective and rather stubborn, though Crowley by now knew that Aziraphale was both, in a way that felt too intimate to be truly registered. Aziraphale _liked_ that. He liked telling Crowley what to do, yes, but he _liked_ enforcing his orders, making Crowley bend, making Crowley _obey_.

It was sexual, much like almost everything Aziraphale did, in bed or outside of it. It was a realisation that came with a shock, because it clashed with everything he’d thought from the start about Aziraphale, about someone whom he’d perceived as a stuffy librarian at first sight. The idea that a subtle sensual undercurrent, if not downright sexual, had sizzled in the background of every interaction they’d ever shared from the very beginning was... startling.

It was startling to realise that they’d begun having sex, in a way, well before they’d ever touched, and Crowley had never thoroughly realised it until then. All his flirting, clumsy and crass and obvious, while Aziraphale subtly took his pleasure in pulling up Crowley’s chair, brushing his hand, ordering for him. It was all sexual, all of it. And Crowley was a blind man and a fool, who had sensed the eroticism underlying every single gesture and yet not recognised it for what it was.

Sex.

It’d always been sex. And Aziraphale had always been interested.

Something had to flicker across his face, because suddenly Aziraphale was pulling away, lessening the pressure on Crowley’s trapped hands. The frown on his forehead had deepened, taking a harried hue now, betraying Aziraphale’s sudden uneasiness just as blatantly as the way his entire body had tensed up, nervous and uncertain where before had been nothing but calm and forceful.

“I’m sorry, dear,” Aziraphale murmured, a worried note into his gravelly voice. “Too much?”

Crowley blinked. He had no idea what _that_ was, exactly, but one thing he knew. He’d never been so turned on in his entire life. His skin was tingling, his heart thundering wildly in his chest. He felt like a live wire, leaking electricity.

“...just enough,” he croaked, trying to get his body under the barest amount of control required to convey that he was all right with that, he really really was. “Fuck me.”

Aziraphale licked his lips, searching Crowley’s face a moment before nodding slightly.

“Very well.” He tilted his head. “With a prophylactic, of course.”

Crowley rolled his eyes.

“Fine, fine,” he grumbled, getting his wrists shoved almost painfully into the mattress for his trouble. He choked on something that was almost a groan at the feeling, and Aziraphale’s eyes were twinkling in the low lights, as he took Crowley’s face in.

“And if it’s all the same to you,” he added, voice low and suddenly softer, “I’d like to look at your lovely face as I take you.”

Crowley blinked and looked away, remembering that uneasy feeling slithering across his skin at the idea of Aziraphale watching him at his most vulnerable. But then again, he’d broken down in front of the man in the middle of a hand job, for crying out loud. How more vulnerable could he get?

He swallowed thickly, then nodded.

“Yes. Alright.”

Aziraphale hummed, bending down to brush his lips against Crowley’s. The touch was so delicate it almost startled him, the contrast with Aziraphale’s steely grip on his wrists deliciously violent. Crowley tried to follow him when Aziraphale pulled away, chasing his subtle, pointed smirk.

“Stay there,” Aziraphale instructed him, and Crowley felt his muscles loosen up as he obeyed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling as Aziraphale retrieved the condoms. Then Aziraphale was pulling him into an embrace, and Crowley went willingly, rolling onto his side and petting Aziraphale’s hair while reaching across the risible distance for a kiss.

The shallow kiss was followed by another, and then another, sweet and slow and lingering. Aziraphale looped his arms around Crowley’s waist to pull him closer, and Crowley hummed softly under his breath when he felt Aziraphale’s cock dig hard and twitching into his hipbone. He parted his lips obligingly at the gentle pressure of Aziraphale’s tongue, and soon they were trading deep, lazy kisses, punctuated by the idle drag of Aziraphale’s leaking cock against Crowley’s belly. Then Aziraphale’s hand found once again the swell of Crowley’s arse, and Crowley groaned into the kiss at the gentle squeeze.

It was so lovely, that unhurried touching for the sake of it. Crowley was once again caught unaware by the sweet wave of delight that came with that thought, even if he should’ve grown accustomed to that by now, to the careful, purposeful way Aziraphale approached sex. But the sticky sensuality of those touches shocked him every time anew, and he shuddered as Aziraphale’s hand reached lower, caressing the underside of his thigh, and squeezed the wiry muscle there for good measure before slowly pulling Crowley’s leg up until his knee was hooked over Aziraphale’s well-padded hipbone.

Aziraphale moved away just enough to grab something he’d settled behind his back, and then Crowley heard the telltale snap of a cap being open. He cradled Aziraphale’s face in his hands as he kissed him, deep and shuddering, feeling suddenly and deliciously exposed with his leg pulled up all the way to Aziraphale’s waist. And soon Aziraphale’s slick fingers were prodding at his hole, spreading lube over the rim and carefully edging what felt like two fingers inside. Crowley was still loose, but he knew better by now than to discuss that particular issue with Aziraphale. Besides, he couldn’t really say that he liked being opened up like that, excruciatingly slow, any less than Aziraphale did. It lessened the sting of being shagged, which Crowley had relished from time to time, but it flayed him naked in a way that being fucked into the mattress did not. It was a new sort of feeling, one that Crowley struggled to categorise. He wasn’t sure if he loved it or if it made him uncomfortable, but he was starting to suspect that it was a bit of both.

“My sweet darling, taking my fingers so well,” Aziraphale murmured against his lips, between kisses. Crowley sank his fingers into that cotton-tuft hair and tightened his grip, holding on, as Aziraphale hissed a groan and nipped his chin. He kissed the sting away one moment later, as his ring finger slipped past Crowley’s rim and plunged deep inside.

Crowley keened at the stretch, relishing the feeling of being full again, nailed so tenderly by three of Aziraphale’s fingers. He kissed Aziraphale’s face everywhere until it became too much, every single drag inside of him pushing him higher, winding him up tighter. It was way too soon for his cock to get hard again, and the pressure was maddening, piling up in his belly with nowhere to go. He cradled Aziraphale’s head against his collarbone and shuddered helplessly, as he was opened wide enough to feel the hard press of Aziraphale’s knuckles against his stretched rim. Crowley groaned deep in his throat, breathless and quivering, at the feeling of Aziraphale nibbling and sucking on the fading bruise on his neck with undeniable enthusiasm, until the skin felt hot and tender to the touch.

It seemed to Crowley that he’d been fingered for years on end, by the time Aziraphale pulled out. He was rolling his hips against Crowley’s belly with obvious intent as he fondled his arse, his slightly flagging erection taking a renewed interest in the proceedings at that steady grinding.

“I think you’re ready to take me, now,” Aziraphale purred, kissing off Crowley’s mouth the sorrowful groan that escaped his lips at Aziraphale’s retreating fingers. He had little time to miss the feeling of being stretched and filled to the brim, however, since Aziraphale managed to tear open a packet and roll a condom over his straining cock in astonishing quick order. He took Crowley’s hand in his and squeezed some lube on his palm, before guiding it between his legs.

“Will you help me, darling?” he crooned, and Crowley gasped softly as he felt the thick girth of Aziraphale’s cock fit perfectly into his slick fist. He pulled at it with a full-body shiver, dazed and shuddering with the need to feel Aziraphale push all the way inside, while Aziraphale hooked Crowley’s knee in the crook of his elbow and spread him open. Crowley felt the stretch in his fluttering, gaping rim, and groaned deeply and stutteringly in his chest at the sensation.

“Guide me inside of you, dearest,” Aziraphale purred against Crowley’s lips, and Crowley’s heart did something complicated, right then, some sort of worrisome faltering as his stomach dropped and a wave of arousal so violent it left him dizzy trampled over him. He could do little but follow Aziraphale’s instruction, and readjusted himself until he could bring the slick tip of Aziraphale’s cock against his hole. Aziraphale kissed him ever so softly as a reward, and Crowley moaned against his lips as he felt the steady pressure of the flared head force his loose muscles to give ground, open up.

“Relax, my sweet boy,” Aziraphale purred, idly stroking the small of Crowley’s back with one hand as the other kept him mercilessly spread open. “I’ll be so gentle with you. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Crowley wailed, a broken, keening sound, as Aziraphale’s pointed words pierced inside him the same way his cock was breaching his rim, thick and wide, demanding space. Aziraphale shushed him, kissing the shadowy, sensitive space under his lower lip.

“You’ve been starving for affection, haven’t you?” Aziraphale crooned, a note of impossible tenderness in his voice as he carefully pushed all the way in. “Starving for a gentle touch.”

Crowley sucked in a deep, wet breath, heart thumping wildly in his chest as he wound his arms around Aziraphale’s neck and pressed their foreheads together. He didn’t have the best record on the matter, but he would not start crying while being shagged. He would _not_.

“Sssh, my darling,” Aziraphale whispered, as Crowley closed his eyes almost painfully tight, the tension impossible to bear. “I’m here.”

It was just so _much_. Everything Crowley had fantasised about and more, every soft word cutting deep, like a claw, bringing bad blood on the surface. Purging the gangrene. He pulled at Aziraphale’s hair, smashing their lips together as he pressed his chest against Aziraphale’s as far as it would go. Aziraphale felt impossibly thick inside of him, and lovely, and hot like a sun-kissed brick wall on a summer day, even through the latex. Crowley could do little but hold on as Aziraphale started to fuck him in slow, even thrusts, as deep as the angle allowed.

“My sweet Crowley,” Aziraphale purred, slipping a leg between Crowley’s thighs until his knee hit the mattress. Crowley gasped at the gentle, rolling pressure of Aziraphale’s round belly against his mostly soft, sensitive cock, and held onto Aziraphale’s shoulders as Aziraphale pushed on his knee and thrust inside all the way to his balls.

Crowley felt a discharge of pure electricity as Aziraphale’s flared cockhead rubbed against his prostate, and bowed his back with a loud groan at that sizzling sort of pain-pleasure. Aziraphale took advantage of Crowley’s bare throat to lick a trail from the hollow between his collarbones to his chin, nipping at the jut of his jaw before sighing against his lips at a particularly deep thrust. He was keeping a pointedly slow pace, making sure that Crowley felt every push and every pull, every painfully pleasurable drag of Aziraphale’s thick cockhead against his prostate.

“This is so good, angel, so _good_,” Crowley sobbed, holding onto Aziraphale’s shoulders for dear life as he tried to push back into Aziraphale’s thrusts, too off-balance to do much but roll his hips. The quivering appreciation seemed to spur Aziraphale on like a cattle prod, and he slammed into Crowley with a warbled grumble, spreading Crowley’s thighs almost impossibly wide. Crowley sank his fingers in Aziraphale’s hair and his face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, breathing him in, the scent of his sweat and his skin, so painfully familiar.

Crowley lost track of time as Aziraphale kept moving in his arms, too wrung-out after his orgasm to get more than half-hard but painfully, wondrously aware of every single deep thrust into his loose body. He whined softly when Aziraphale pushed him on his back, more for the temporary loss of Aziraphale’s lovely cock inside his stretched hole than anything else, and let out a trembling sigh as Aziraphale slipped back inside. Aziraphale was bracing his entire weight on the elbow he’d planted onto the mattress beside Crowley’s face, grabbing the underside of Crowley’s knee with his other hand to keep him spread open, vulnerable and off-balance, as every deep thrust lifted Crowley’s arse from the bed. His eyes were open wide and impossibly dark as they took Crowley’s face in, and Crowley felt flayed to the bone for a moment as Aziraphale stared straight at him, achingly close, before smashing their mouths together with a shivering groan.

The pace changed, then. It became a rut, Aziraphale’s balls slapping against Crowley’s arse at every powerful thrusts. Crowley cradled Aziraphale’s precious face and kissed him, and kissed him, swallowing his shuddering groans and helpless gasps as he reached his peak and, after a particularly deep thrust, almost painful in its violence, came with a rumbling, shivering moan. Aziraphale tried and failed to keep himself up, all but collapsing on top of Crowley as his hips stuttered in a few shallow thrusts, chasing the last shreds of his orgasm while Crowley held him tight with a tenderness he hadn’t known he possessed.

Crowley was stroking the short hair on Aziraphale’s nape and planting soft, surreptitious kisses all over his forehead and temple when Aziraphale stirred. His eyes were soft and a bit hazy as he looked up, taking in Crowley’s guarded face with a heartbreaking smile.

“Hello,” Aziraphale purred, pushing himself up for a kiss. Crowley chuckled against his lips, but quickly subsided, allowing Aziraphale to nuzzle his cheek and stroke a heavy, sluggish hand down his neck.

“Hello yourself.”

“Hmm,” Aziraphale grumbled, kissing his cheekbone before stirring slightly into his arms. “I’m sorry, I must be crushing you. Let me...”

“I don’t think so,” Crowley grumbled, hooking his heels behind Aziraphale’s frankly glorious arse. “I like you exactly where you are.”

Aziraphale took an unsteady breath as he looked down at Crowley’s face, eyes wide and dark.

“Inside of you?”

The pointed tone of Aziraphale’s question was impossible to mistake. Crowley swallowed, squeezing his legs around Aziraphale’s hips, and clenching ever so gently around Aziraphale’s softening cock in his arse.

“Yes.”

Aziraphale groaned in reply, shivering deeply in Crowley’s arms. He was probably oversensitive as well as wrung-out, but he didn’t protest, shifting slightly to hold Crowley more comfortably as he peppered his face and neck with drawn-out kisses.

Eventually, Aziraphale’s soft cock was forced to obey gravity, and started to slip slowly out of Crowley’s loosened hole. Aziraphale pushed a hand between their bellies to hold the condom firmly in place, before peeling himself off Crowley with a grumble. The cooling sweat between their bodies made for a sticky pull, skins protesting at the separation. Aziraphale placed a gentle peck on Crowley’s nose and sat on his hunches, pulling the condom off his glistening cock and tying it up.

“I’d better get ready for bed,” he said, in a quite unwilling tone that made that slightly dubious sentence into more of an attempt at convincing himself than explaining to Crowley why he was forced to get to his feet.

Crowley hummed in reply, too busy looking at him up and down to come up with a more articulate answer. Aziraphale ducked his head with a thread of embarrassment at the pointed look, but blatantly refused to let himself be rushed, padding to the bathroom on unsteady legs. Crowley stayed where he was, staring at the ceiling and relishing the ache in his arse, that specific sort of pleasant ache that came from a thorough shag. He pulled rather distractedly at his half-hard cock, but he was too tired and wrung-out to get it up again, and eventually he let it rest on his thigh.

He realised he’d closed his eyes when he felt the gentle brush of Aziraphale’s hand against his cheek, bringing him back to present with a start.

“You look knackered, darling,” Aziraphale murmured, a hint of smugness in his voice amidst the soft concern that Crowley had no difficulties to recognise. “You have the bathroom, if you want to. Or would you rather...?”

Crowley gently pushed away the hand that Aziraphale was hovering over his soft cock.

“Nah, ‘m good,” he grumbled, weariness filtering through his voice. “Too soon.”

“Time to tuck in, then,” Aziraphale chuckled, low and tender and lovely. He moved away, giving Crowley some space.

Crowley scrubbed a hand down his face, before gingerly getting up. He felt his muscles protest at the sudden movement, and as his eyes met Aziraphale’s, he thought he was going to get thoroughly checked once again, but Aziraphale seemed to think better of it. His eyes were pointed and unblinking as he watched Crowley get up on his feet, however, and Crowley had no doubt that Aziraphale’s gaze followed him all the way to the bedroom door. He came back from the living room with his toiletries and his sleepwear, only to find Aziraphale pulling down the covers and fluffing up the pillows. Crowley didn’t even try to hide his loopy grin as he padded a little unsteadily to the bathroom and closed the door behind.

Aziraphale was already under the covers when Crowley came back. He had a book in his hands, but he laid it carefully on the top of his night table as Crowley joined him. He turned to gather Crowley in his arms, and Crowley went willingly, melting at the gentle press of Aziraphale’s lips against his own.

They exchanged slow, lazy kisses for a while, affectionate in a way that danced across Crowley’s skin like electricity, until Aziraphale pressed their foreheads together with a deep, unsteady sigh. Crowley stroked Aziraphale’s neck, his chest, the soft material of his pyjama bunching up slightly under Crowley’s palm. It felt vaguely unreal, still, being allowed to touch like that, just for the sake of being close, without any hidden purpose. It felt decadent, in a way, almost hedonistic. Tenderness for the sake of tenderness.

“My darling Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, cradling his face with impossible, aching gentleness. “You have such a delicate heart. It makes me want to take charge of you.”

Crowley blinked, unsure on how to respond to that. He should’ve resented that comment, perhaps, but he couldn’t find in himself the will to protest, not with the desperate tenderness ringing in Aziraphale’s voice. He was tired, and calm, and satisfied, almost drifting. That sticky, lulling euphoria Aziraphale seemed to awaken in him was blooming into his chest like a vine, wiry brambles looping around his hearts and slowly spreading into his body, his limbs, all the way to his hazy brain.

He was content, the rioting panic in his mind sedated to a background buzzing sound, like the flight of a hummingbird. Too content to protest the obvious. If Aziraphale wanted him to have a delicate heart, well, Crowley could easily oblige. And if Aziraphale wanted to take charge of him...

“You can,” he murmured, nuzzling Aziraphale’s cheek. “If you want.”

Aziraphale answered with a sigh, something deep and almost painful, as if yanked out all the way from his chest.

“You don’t know what you’re agreeing to,” he protested, but it was weak, pained.

Crowley didn’t want Aziraphale to suffer. Not ever again, after that horrible weekend. Not if Crowley could help it.

“We could... try,” he proposed, not sure about what he was offering, but willing to give it a chance, if it would make Aziraphale happy. “See if it works.”

Aziraphale sighed again, but it was lighter, this time. Almost defeated.

“All right,” he agreed, something fluttering in his voice, something that Crowley vaguely identified as a deep, aching relief. “But we’ll need to have a serious talk about it, if we want to take this sort of... arrangement any further.”

Crowley frowned a little at that, but it didn’t sound like a bad kind of talk, even if Aziraphale seemed awfully tense about it. He kissed Aziraphale sweetly on the mouth, for lack of any other better idea on how to tackle the issue.

“Alright.”

“Not now, though,” Aziraphale sighed, gently manhandling Crowley until he was resting his head on Aziraphale’s chest, tucked neatly under his chin. “It’s late. We’d better get some sleep.”

That sounded like the best idea Crowley had ever heard. He hummed in agreement, realising vaguely how heavy his body felt, limbs like logs, eyes impossible to keep open. He curled around Aziraphale’s body like a leech, hand fisted in the tartan shirt of his pyjama, and fell asleep at the steady beat of Aziraphale’s heart.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely people!  
Here we are, with another chunky chapter. My muse has been a bit uncooperative during the past few weeks, and I’d like to thank you all for the support and the incredible love you’ve been pouring over this story of mine. It’s slowly becoming a monster, and I’m just so grateful to you all for sticking around chapter after chapter without an end in sight.  
A particularly heartfelt thanks to [uponwhatgrounds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uponwhatgrounds/pseuds/uponwhatgrounds), that once again gifted me with yet more stunning [pieces of art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24000142). At the risk of being repetitive, I can’t thank this wondrous human being enough for being so incredibly kind. It’s such a huge compliment and such a moving act of appreciation to see my story being so beautifully illustrated. Thank you, again, and again, and again.  
I would also like to take the chance to reassure everyone reading both my ongoing stories that I haven’t forgotten _The Art of Letting Go_, since I’ve been receiving quite a few worried comments lately. I plan to dive back into that as soon as REFL is finished, if not before. But I’m so grateful to you all for not forgetting my story, and even if I’m really bad at answering your comments, each and every one of them warms my heart <3  
That said! I’m a bit nervous about this chapter and the next few to come, so I really hope you’ll like them.

Getting out of bed felt like an impossible endeavour, the morning after. Having Aziraphale sleepily kissing his hair and fondling his arse didn’t exactly help Crowley in his quest to reach the floor, and he stayed in bed longer than he should have, nuzzling Aziraphale’s sleep-warm throat and lazily pressing his half-hard cock into Aziraphale’s belly. Aziraphale had taken to the idea with a good measure of enthusiasm, adjusting Crowley’s limbs on top of himself to grind his own morning erection into Crowley’s thigh.

A low, shuddering groan tumbled out of Crowley’s lips when he felt Aziraphale push a hand inside his boxers, palming the small of his back before slipping a finger between the cheeks of his arse. His well-shagged hole wasn’t really aching anymore, but Crowley felt the pointed rub of Aziraphale’s dry index all the way to his nape, a sort of a pleasant sting that made his stomach drop and his cock twitch in his pants.

“Does it hurt, darling?” Aziraphale whispered, directly into his ear, before nipping at the sensitive shell. Crowley bucked against him, skin pebbling in a cascade of shivers. It was way too soon and way too late at the same time to get up to that sort of mischief, but his cock couldn’t obviously care less of what Crowley thought about getting in trouble at work or having to hop about with a raging hard-on to get to the shower.

“Only in the best way, angel,” Crowley groaned, pushing back against the gentle pressure.

Aziraphale hummed in his hair, nuzzling the delicate spot behind his ear while lovingly stroking his tender hole. Crowley felt the press of Aziraphale’s other hand against his hip, and let himself be directed to grind his thigh more effectively against Aziraphale’s cock, hard and wonderfully thick even through the layers of their clothing. The bastard didn’t have to go anywhere until later in the morning, and could happily have a nice wank at leisure before getting up. Crowley didn’t have that sort of leeway, not during the week, at least.

(He also didn’t have the sort of leeway to imagine Aziraphale leisurely pulling at his cock once Crowley was gone, not if he wanted to go in the first place.)

“I have to get up, angel,” Crowley weakly protested, without in fact making a single move to follow that up with any sort of concrete measure. Aziraphale hummed distractedly in return, too busy nipping at Crowley’s neck to bother using his words. The smell of Aziraphale’s skin was stronger in the morning, lovely and addictive, and he felt wondrously warm and way too good to be left alone in such a huge bed. But Crowley doubted that Beelzebub would share his indubitably objective appraisal of the situation.

With something of a herculean effort, Crowley tried to pull himself away, getting a displeased grumble for his trouble. But soon enough Aziraphale was slipping his hand out of Crowley’s pants, and letting him go with a mournful sigh.

“Fine,” Aziraphale mumbled, rolling to the other side. “Go, before I change my mind and keep you here.”

Crowley chuckled at that, warm and amused and subtly pleased, and spared a moment to contemplate his neglected hard-on before awkwardly padding into the bathroom. His balls were aching, his cock was aching, his arse was aching, and while none of that was strictly an _unpleasant_ ache, he didn’t really have the time to wank the tension away. He was already late as it was. He hopped out of the shower a short time after, still half-hard and a bit harried, and dressed up quickly before walking to Aziraphale with what felt like an idiotic grin on his lips. He brushed a hand through those white-blond hair, and Aziraphale cracked an eye open at him, a soft smile brightening his sleep-slack features.

“Can I call you tonight?” he asked, making a grab for Crowley’s hand and kissing his palm. “I know we’re seeing each other tomorrow, but...”

He didn’t finish the sentence, but he didn’t need to. Crowley knew that Aziraphale meant to check up on him, see how he was doing after he’d broken down so spectacularly not three days before, but for once, Crowley didn’t really mind. He was starting to realise that maybe Aziraphale _liked_ to take care of him, not just in the pointed way he seemed to get pleasure from during sex, but outside of bed, too. Maybe it wasn’t something he felt his duty to provide, some support for the miserable git he’d been saddled with, but something he actually _enjoyed_. He was obviously still unsure about his attentions being ill-received, being too much, and the way Crowley kept reacting wasn’t helping.

Maybe it was about time to stop fighting the fact that he liked being taken care of. It wasn’t like it had done him any favours so far. Maybe accepting it would work better for him. Why should he be ashamed of something out of which Aziraphale took such blatant pleasure, after all?

“Of course, angel,” he answered, something almost embarrassingly sweet in his voice. Aziraphale beamed at him with the brightest smile Crowley had ever seen, and he felt the tenderness of it into the marrow of his bones, over his tongue and into his teeth.

“Have a good day at work, darling,” Aziraphale answered, placing a parting kiss on Crowley’s palm before letting him go. Crowley blinked at him for a moment longer. There was something lodged in his throat that was making speaking surprisingly difficult, so Crowley bent down and placed a soft kiss onto Aziraphale’s temple, instead.

“You too, angel,” he managed to croak out, before picking up his long limbs and heading out.

* * *

Crowley was half an hour late when he got to work that morning, which didn’t exactly make Beelzebub any fonder of him, and he had to make up for the lost time after hours. Even worse, however, was the sly grins Anathema kept shooting at him whenever he met her eyes, which meant that Crowley spent most of his morning avoiding her to the point that by midday her sly grins had turned into full-on, vaguely unsettling leers. Crowley wasn’t really used to being at the receiving end of _those_, since Anathema had never really paid much thought or attention to any of Crowley’s previous dalliances, and he hid in his cubicle until it was safe to come out, after the end of Anathema’s shift.

He was in an odd mood as he drove home, but not a bad one. He’d finally received an answer from the contractor workers he’d hired to change the three floorboards he’d completely ruined with bourbon what felt like a full age before, and had managed to set up an appointment for the following week. That sort of business would carve a nice hole in his savings, but it was his own fault for being a panicky, pessimistic fool who used drinking his weight in alcohol as a coping mechanism for when things went bad. He realised vaguely that he hadn’t actually got pissed alone in weeks, and decided that he could do with a glass of wine that evening, as a reward.

He was busy checking his plants for leaf spots when Aziraphale called. Crowley picked up the phone and accepted the call, while carrying on with his task.

“Hello, angel,” he murmured, a little distractedly, his wrathful attention focused on one of his rubber plants that was not looking as luscious as Crowley knew it could be.

Aziraphale’s voice was soft and warm like fur as he answered.

“Good evening, dear. Did you have a nice day at work?”

Crowley snorted.

“I was late. You know I was late. By no fault of my own, I’d like to add.”

“No fault?” Aziraphale chuckled. “That’s a bold assertion.”

Crowley laughed at that, because he couldn’t _not_ to, and they chattered a while about nothing at all, just to hear the sound of each other’s voices. It felt warm and comfortable and so sweet Crowley wasn’t sure he wouldn’t have hated it, if it hadn’t been happening to _him_. As it was, he had no intention of wasting even a drop of all that honey if it gave him diabetes.

“And how are you, dear?” Aziraphale cooed, after a good half an hour.

Crowley chuckled lowly in his throat, as he walked out of the kitchen with a fully loaded plant mister and started to spray his reasonably well-behaving plants with misty water.

“My arse is still recovering, if that’s what you’re aiming for,” he purred, which was perhaps a slight exaggeration, but he had felt some residual ache from Aziraphale’s thorough shagging through the morning and part of the afternoon. Besides, he knew that it pleased Aziraphale to hear that, and the answering hum he got for his trouble sent a shiver down his spine.

“My poor, sweet boy,” Aziraphale crooned, his tone sparking something under Crowley’s spine, making his cock twitch in interest. “Have I been too rough on you?”

“Pity you’re not here,” Crowley shot back, in a moment of divine inspiration. “You could check by yourself.”

He heard the rush of Aziraphale’s stuttering intake of breath like the prick of a pin, drawing blood.

“I could, couldn’t I?” Aziraphale whispered, slow and pointed and charged as a battery. “Lay you down on the bed, lower your pants, and spread you open to get a good look at you.”

Crowley swallowed thickly at those words, feeling the rush of blood to his prick almost like a pull under the skin. His cock went from vaguely interested to painfully hard quickly enough to make his head spin, and he felt dizzy with it, a shuddering mess, standing like a twit in his greenery with his phone tucked between his ear and shoulder and a green plastic plant mister in his hand that hadn’t sprayed a droplet of water for the past five minutes.

“Angel,” he ground out, voice low and shockingly gravelly, “what are we doing here, exactly?”

“What would you like to be doing, darling?” Aziraphale shot back, voice firm once again, as though Crowley’s wavering control had somehow buttressed his own.

Crowley thought for a moment about some sort of sophisticated, leery answer, but he came up empty-handed. The truth would have to do.

“I’m hard,” he confessed, quick and breathless, swallowing thickly the moment the words had left his mouth.

Aziraphale hummed in his ear, low and steady, like a purr.

“Then we should do something about that.” A beat. “Where are you, now?”

“In my greenery, watering my plants,” Crowley answered, before he could think of anything else.

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to hear after that, but when Aziraphale burst into laughter, bright and happy and full of fond amusement, Crowley realised that it couldn’t have been anything else.

“I’m sorry, dear boy, I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale chuckled, warm and lovely and genuine in a way that made Crowley’s heart ache. “I just, well, imagined you there with a painful erection and a watering pot in your hand and I just... I couldn’t _not_ laugh.”

“Thanks,” Crowley tersely replied, though Aziraphale was right, it _was_ funny.

Something in his answer appeared to tip Aziraphale the wrong way, since his voice was suddenly serious and a little worried as he carried on.

“Have I upset you, darling? You must know, I didn’t mean to be offensive. I wasn’t laughing at you. I just thought...”

“You didn’t put your foot in your mouth, angel, no need to fret,” Crowley quickly reassured him. From what he’d seen of the horrible Fell family, he wasn’t surprised in the slightest that Aziraphale would immediately read a more or less innocent laugh exactly that way. It was sweet, really, that he wanted to make sure that Crowley wouldn’t read it that way as well, and be hurt by a careless quip. “It _was_ a bit funny. And it’s a plant mister.”

“Beg your pardon?” Aziraphale asked, after a moment of silent confusion.

“What I’m holding in my hand,” Crowley explained. “It’s not a watering pot. It’s a plant mister.”

Aziraphale’s laugh was expected, this time, but not any less bright, or any less lovely. It felt like sunshine on his cheeks, and Crowley couldn’t help but laugh with him, a light, joyful sound.

“All right, darling,” Aziraphale chuckled, when they finally managed to sober up. “Where were we?”

“In the middle of something, I think, but I’m afraid the mood is gone.”

As well as most of his hard-on, but Crowley didn’t really mind, oddly enough.

“I’m sorry, dear boy,” Aziraphale answered, sounding truly apologetic.

Crowley took his phone in his hand and shrugged, forgetting that Aziraphale wasn’t there to see him.

“’s alright. It was fun anyway, and I’m sure we’ll have other occasions,” he distractedly answered, carrying on with his task. He realised what he’d said with a moment delay, and felt something warm blooming gently into his chest, at the offhanded knowledge that they _would_ have other occasions, that Aziraphale would call him again and again and again and he wouldn’t have to wonder when he’d hear from him next.

It was a strange, soothing feeling. Crowley was smiling to himself as he moved onto the next plant, a bubbling sort of happiness spreading into his body, all the way to his cold limbs and up to the tip of his nose.

“I’ll do better next time, darling, I promise,” Aziraphale said, an amused note still lingering in his voice. “Would you like to have dinner at mine, tomorrow?”

“Are you telling me you’re going to cook us dinner, angel?” Crowley chuckled, realising for the first time that he had absolutely no idea whether Aziraphale could actually hold a pot by its right end, but he’d somehow assumed the other man would be hard-pressed to recognise one at all.

The supercilious scoff he got in return was all the answer he needed.

“Don’t be ridiculous, my dear,” Aziraphale primly replied. “We’re going to get delivery. Any preferences?”

Crowley thought about it for a moment.

“What about Chinese? It’s been a while.”

“That sounds lovely. Anything in particular?”

Crowley felt a smirk brush his lips, as he put the plant mister down on the counter and ambled lazily towards the couch.

“I’m sure I’ll like whatever you choose,” he purred, dropping his weight onto the padded seat and pulling up his socked feet. Aziraphale hummed appreciatively in his ear, heat creeping stealthy into his voice, recognisable even through the line.

“_Very _good, darling,” he crooned, sending a shiver down Crowley’s spine. “I know just the thing. And...”

Crowley frowned at the odd pause.

“And?”

“After that, I thought we could... ah, we could talk. About what we said last night.” Another pause, fragile in a way that squeezed Crowley’s heart. “If you haven’t changed your mind, of course...?”

It took Crowley a moment to understand what Aziraphale was talking about, but then the memory popped up in the forefront of his mind, shadowy and gossamer, like overlapping veils.

_You have such a delicate heart. It makes me want to take charge of you._

Crowley swallowed thickly, something shuddering in his blood at the echo of Aziraphale’s silky voice. He wasn’t sure what Aziraphale had meant by that, not exactly, and he’d half-forgotten the exchange by the time he’d fallen asleep, but now he remembered perfectly well. And whatever that was, he wanted it. He wanted to know, at the very least.

“I haven’t changed my mind,” he answered, slow and clear, because he suspected that Aziraphale was the one needing an unequivocal answer, this time. “Talking sounds... good.”

A beat, and then Aziraphale’s voice, a bit nervous and a bit excited.

“Very well. I have an early shift tomorrow, and I’ll be home rather early. What time would you like to come by?”

“Somewhere between half five and six? The time to drive over and find a spot for my Bentley.”

“Wonderful.” Another pause, as though Aziraphale was trying to make order in his mind. “I’ll say goodnight, then.”

It was a bit abrupt, as far as the end of their conversations went, but Crowley didn’t take it personally. Whatever the issue was, it was obviously a big deal for Aziraphale, and Crowley could understand very well the stress that went with those sorts of things.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, angel,” he murmured back, trying to sound as soothing as possible. “Goodnight to you, too.”

The call fell through, after that, but Crowley couldn’t shake from his mind the impression that Aziraphale had been smiling, on the other side of the line.

* * *

Crowley was in a rather blatant and not little embarrassing good mood, by the time Friday evening finally rolled by. He was almost giddy with the thought of spending so much time with Aziraphale, which was ludicrous, since barely a day had passed from the last time he’d been in his bed, but Crowley had given up by now on pretending, at least to himself, that he was nothing more than a cool wanker without a care in the world. He was an old fool with a mortifying crush, that was what he was, and the sooner he’d accept that, the better. He had a feeling that it’d make for a much smoother ride.

He was also a bit nervous and a lot curious about their supposed talk. He’d given some thought about what Aziraphale could mean with ‘taking charge of him’, and although he’d come up empty-handed, there was a certain sexual undercurrent to that expression that even Crowley wasn’t dense enough to miss. It had probably something to do with the pointed way Aziraphale handled him in bed, which... sounded promising at the very least. And if what Aziraphale had in mind was a bit _kinky_, well, Crowley was a man of the world. Sure, Aziraphale had surprised him a bit with the dirty talking and the bossiness and the subtle way he seemed to be able to wind Crowley up without even trying, but he was a sweet, old-fashioned _librarian_, for crying out loud, Crowley doubted very much that he’d end the evening being shocked out of his socks.

That was pretty much the moment he was reminded of that bit about punishment which had slipped out of his mind with the rather interesting developments unfolding straight after, and wisely decided that perhaps he would do a lot better with a little less speculation. But if Aziraphale wanted to give him a sound whipping or something, well. _Well_. Crowley wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that, to be honest, since the closest he’d got to experience pain during sex was a few playful, off-handed swats on his arse. It also collided with the image he held so dear of a soft, almost unbearably tender Aziraphale with enough violence that Crowley was rather inclined to dismiss it on the spot.

And yet. Aziraphale had shown him a rather forceful side, something that Crowley would’ve never thought would come so readily to the easily flustered librarian he’d met about a month past. But now that all was said and done, it actually looked pretty in-character for the man Crowley had come to know. So why not that, too? Aziraphale had seemed awfully interested in Crowley’s mention of some rough play, after all.

It was startling to realise that he’d first met Aziraphale such a short time before. The way they slotted together, the way Crowley felt him with, relaxed and loose and _trustful_, seemed like something that needed much more time to blossom fully. But Crowley was more at ease with Aziraphale after a month than with acquaintances he’d known for years.

It was a scary thought. It made him uneasy to realise that Aziraphale could and probably _did_ have hidden sides that Crowley knew nothing about, and just because he’d perceived him in a way, that didn’t mean that he _knew_ Aziraphale. Hell, he’d barely managed to get out of the man some details about his ex. Crowley didn’t even know if all that gentleness was actually real, or a passing sentiment that could be put aside as easily as it’d come up.

Aziraphale had said that he’d barely felt it when his partner of five years left him. If a relationship of that sort could be so easily forgotten, how important could that thing he’d been sharing with Crowley for what, a couple of weeks, possibly be? How long before Aziraphale shrugged _Crowley_ off the same way?

He was spiralling. Again.

Crowley took a deep breath, trying to get things back in proportion. Aziraphale had _told_ him he wanted a long-term relationship. Whatever might have happened with his ex, whatever he might still be hiding, he’d never be so cruel as to lie to Crowley’s face about it. If Aziraphale had said that he wanted Crowley to stick around for a long while, he’d meant it. Crowley was sure of it. Aziraphale might not be the most open person Crowley had ever met, but _Crowley_ wasn’t either, and he knew people and he knew Aziraphale well enough to know that he wasn’t a malicious man. There was a kindness to him that was impossible to fake convincingly, and after what Crowley had seen during that blasted weekend, he’d bet his Bentley on finding Aziraphale utterly repulsed by cruelty.

Besides, there was something in the way he touched Crowley that could not be feigned. Crowley wasn’t entirely sure what that was, but he knew that whatever surprise he might get from Aziraphale, a hidden cruel streak would not be it.

Curiosity and a whole lot of excited anticipation had therefore won over anxiety, by the time Crowley finished his shift and marched out of the building. It’d been a rather hectic day, the last fining touches to the next issue before sending it to print taking up all his time and attention. Even Anathema had been too busy to loiter about his desk. Crowley knew that he couldn’t avoid her forever, but procrastination had been working quite well for him until now, and there was no reason to change a more or less winning strategy. Besides, there were questions lurking between them that Crowley wasn’t quite ready to answer, and postponing the entire issue to the following week had seemed like a particularly wonderful idea at the time. He had an entire evening with Aziraphale to look forward to, _and_ the morning after as well, for once. No reason to worry about stuff he could easily think about at a (much) later time.

It took Crowley quite a bit to find a parking lot for his Bentley, but eventually he dug out a multi-storey car park with a free spot not too far from Aziraphale’s home, and he was reasonably on time when he stepped up to Aziraphale’s building block. He searched for his name on the list of doorbells by the main door for a while, before realising that there was no Aziraphale there. There was an Aaron Z. Fell, however, and Crowley’s heart twisted a little painfully in his chest at the sight.

_My friends call me Aziraphale._

He rang the bell and looked resolutely away, as he waited for the front door to open. It wasn’t any of his business, and he suspected that Aziraphale would not thank him for bringing it up.

Aziraphale was waiting for him before his opened door, when Crowley reached the top of the stairs. The smile Aziraphale gave him was bright enough to light up the entire flat, and he actually leant up to brush a kiss against Crowley’s lips, before taking his hand and leading him inside. Crowley hadn’t really expected that, but then again, they usually met in public places, not in a deserted hallway.

Crowley closed the door behind him and left his travel bag by the threshold, before letting Aziraphale pull him into the kitchen, which he’d actually never really had a chance to see. It was as small and cramped and full of books as the rest of the place, with just enough free space on the counter to heat up an ancient teakettle on the stove without burning the entire place down.

There was also a small table in a corner with two mismatched chairs, but delicately made up with a white tablecloth, folded napkins and neatly arranged cutlery. There was even a small candle burning brightly between the empty plates, and Crowley was unwillingly touched by the care Aziraphale had obviously put into making their delivery dinner as romantic as possible.

(He also very quickly dismissed the notion of _romantic_ from his mind, but it was too late, and he knew it.)

“Take a seat, dear,” Aziraphale urged him, pulling up a chair and helping him into it. “Dinner should be here in a moment.”

They ended up chatting idly about their day as they waited, and when dinner finally arrived, Aziraphale refused Crowley’s every attempt at paying for it or helping out with plating their steaming food. They shared the beef dumplings and the pan-fried shrimps, and Crowley did his best not to preen when Aziraphale praised his chopstick skills as he tried to eat his chow mein without having the noodles slither all the way to the front door. Aziraphale used his own set to pick up a bite of lemon chicken and delicately hold the morsel up for Crowley to eat, eyes sparkling with a mischievous glint in the candlelight.

They washed down their dinner with some wine, and Crowley was charged with the task of bringing the half-empty bottle and the glasses to the living room, while Aziraphale washed the dishes. Crowley’s offer to help had been gently but firmly turned down, and his following half-hearted suggestion of doing the dishes at a later time answered with some pointed comment about them being too _busy_ and _distracted_ to wash anything as the evening carried on, which worked like a charm to stop Crowley’s grumbling and get him moving in his task.

He was comfortably sprawled all over the couch with a glass in hand, when Aziraphale finally emerged from the kitchen. He took a seat beside Crowley and picked up his freshly filled glass, eying Crowley in a way that he surely thought was surreptitious as Crowley tilted his head in waiting.

Eventually, Aziraphale lowered his glass and let out a deep sigh.

“What do you know about power play, my dear?” he asked, out of the blue.

Crowley blinked, taken aback. If that was supposed to be an introduction to their famous talk, it was really not what he’d been expecting. He wasn’t even sure how to answer.

“Power play?” he repeated, realising just as the words were coming out of his mouth that Aziraphale had meant that in a sexual context.

“Yes,” Aziraphale confirmed, before needlessly clarifying, “during sex.”

Crowley thought about it. The only thing he knew on the subject was some very vague stuff about BDSM that everyone knew, chains and whips and leather and the like. Which was... a bit alarming.

Also very much in line with what he’d been speculating before.

“...is this the part where you tell me that you’re a sadist?” Crowley ventured, a bit hesitantly, and not a little miffed at his own realisation that he was not particularly comfortable with the subject.

(And there it went the beloved idea he held of himself as a worldly man, straight out of the window, together with his initial preconceptions of Aziraphale as a stuffy, stereotypical librarian.)

Thankfully enough, Aziraphale actually _snorted_ at his question. Which was a bit rude, but Crowley was way too relieved to be offended by it.

“I’m really not.”

“Good,” Crowley answered, aiming for teasing and landing straight into truthful territory, “because I don’t think I’d be a good masochist.” A pause, and then, a bit awkwardly: “Are you?”

Aziraphale shook his head. He was mostly staring at his glass, sparing Crowley a few glances once in a while.

“Not a masochist either. And I don’t want _you_ to be anything but what you are.” He took a sip from his glass, obviously stalling as he considered the best way forward. “I don’t enjoy hurting my partners,” he eventually added, slowly and cautiously, “at least for the most part.”

Which was a bit confusing, after they got the not-a-sadist bit out of the way.

“Uh?” was all that Crowley could come up with, in a spark of astonishing genius.

“I’m not utterly averse to some punishment, if that’s something my partner enjoys,” Aziraphale carefully elaborated. “But I prefer to spoil them, and anything direr than some light spanking is off the table.”

Aziraphale looked rightly tense, now, guarded and alert, as though he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Crowley wasn’t sure why. For once, he was pretty relieved that Aziraphale wasn’t going to cane him like a Victorian orphan in a charity school, but he could admit to finding the concept of being pulled over Aziraphale’s knee and getting a sound spanking when he messed up somewhat... interesting.

He was going to ignore how pleasant the spoiling bit had sounded, for now. Aziraphale had already told him as much, after all, and there was no need to get hot and bothered about that concept all over again.

(He was also going to ignore the very vivid memory of Sir Galahad at Castle Anthrax, before he started to giggle like a fifteen-year-old and disrupted the mood completely.)

“All right,” Crowley said, a bit thoughtfully. “That pretty much exhausts what I know about power play. Since you asked.”

Aziraphale twisted his wrist ever so slightly, making the wine in his glass swirl gently.

“I thought so.”

Aziraphale lapsed into silence, after that, and Crowley allowed him the time to gather his thoughts. That had started off as a rather odd conversation, and he doubted it would be getting less odd going forward. He couldn’t even imagine how difficult it had to be for Aziraphale, who actually had to lead the talk, instead of simply sitting there sipping wine and trying to decide whether he found the entire business uncomfortably alien or uncomfortably titillating.

“It’s about control,” Aziraphale resumed eventually, in a calm, measured voice, without lifting his gaze from the wine sloshing about in his glass in slow, almost hypnotic swirls. “Pain and punishment, bondage, leather and collars–that’s what everyone has heard about at least once in their lifetime, but they’re little more than means to an end. The core of it, the reason we are drawn to that sort of play, is control. A power exchange. Someone taking the lead and someone willing to be led. Everything else is just personal preference, the right tool to get to the right end results.”

Crowley had never really thought much about why someone would choose that sort of play. He’d picked up bits and pieces, here and there through the years, about the whipping and the theatricality of the scene with the prurient curiosity of an uninvolved bystander, but he’d chalked it all down to people being weird and left it at that. There were many men and a good lot of women who couldn’t even fathom why he liked cock so much, after all.

“Is that what you like? Control?” he asked, already knowing the answer. Every single interaction they’d shared, every push and pull, had been about that. Crowley simply hadn’t had the right words, the right standpoint to describe it properly. But now he did.

_A power exchange._

How fitting.

Aziraphale seemed a bit embarrassed by the question, as though he wasn’t really used to having to explain his preferences that way. It was somewhat jarring, and Crowley belatedly realised that Aziraphale seemed to swing madly between a calm confidence in his proclivities and something that coasted a bit too closely to shame.

“Yes,” he answered, risking a quick look at Crowley’s face with worried, uneasy blue eyes. “I like to take charge of my partner, see to their needs. I don’t care much for pain. What I want is for my partner to surrender to me. Anything else is just...”

“Means to an end,” Crowley quietly finished.

Aziraphale nodded.

“Yes.”

Crowley licked his lips.

“Is that why Robert called you overbearing?” he asked, rather impulsively, and chided himself when Aziraphale seemed to close off a little, retreating in himself.

“I never played with Robert,” Aziraphale answered, as though that was enough explanation. And it was, in a way.

Crowley swallowed a lump in his throat. He’d never had to keep his sexual preferences in check, but he was familiar with the concept of holding back to avoid scaring off his partner well enough to understand the feeling.

“So,” he said, letting his tongue run ahead to fill the silence while he struggled to get back his bearings in that surreal conversation, “you want to have kinky sex. Is that it?”

Aziraphale searched Crowley’s face for a moment, before looking away. He seemed troubled, as though he didn’t quite know the answer to that question either.

“In a way,” he eventually replied, before rushing to add: “But you don’t have to, if you don’t want to. I’m just as happy with the way things are right now.”

Crowley thought it over for a moment, every pointed touch, every sticky whisper rustling in the back of his mind, like wind shaking the trees.

“But we aren’t having regular sex either, are we?” he answered, slowly and thoughtfully. “Not exactly.”

This time, it would’ve been impossible for Crowley not to recognise the obvious shame flitting through Aziraphale’s face. He looked chagrined as he glanced away, and Crowley nearly reached out, the need to touch, to soothe the frown burrowing Aziraphale’s forehead almost overwhelming, but he stopped himself in time. He realised that there was a reason Aziraphale had sat distant enough on the couch to discourage touch, and that was it. If Crowley reached for him now, if he held him close, the conversation would soon take another direction entirely, and he understood now that they’d been avoiding that discussion for far too long.

“I’m so sorry, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, his head bowed, his mouth downturned. “It wasn’t right or fair of me to play with you like that, not without talking about it first. I tried not to, but... I could see what you needed, and not giving it to you was just so difficult. And you answered so beautifully. I just... I couldn’t stop.”

“You could’ve asked me,” Crowley said, a bit offended, and uncomfortably aware of how hypocritical he was being as he added: “You wanted to talk things out. You said that I was supposed to ask if I didn’t know something. That goes for you too, you know.”

Aziraphale looked guiltily away, cradling his glass in his hand.

“You are right, of course. But sharing with you what I wanted was a risk, and I had no idea how you would react. I was afraid. And I could do without, I knew I could. I _did_ do without, with Robert, and others before him.” A glance, then, almost fierce, as though Aziraphale had decided that flaying himself bare was worth the risk, after all. Crowley was taken aback by the sheer amount of trust that something like that required. He knew that intimately, after all. “It’s difficult, striking a balance. It comes natural, sometimes. And sometimes it requires such a thorough distancing from the act that it’s not even sex anymore, just... hydraulics. I tried to hold back, because I couldn’t bear the thought of having my desires spurned by you, of all people, or even worse, losing you entirely, but I couldn’t. I didn’t _want_ to.”

Aziraphale’s eyes were piercing, almost unblinking, as they bore holes in Crowley’s. His mouth was set into a hard line, full of grim determination, and Crowley realised that they were both idiots, too terrified of scaring the other away to give up that tapping dance that was slowly killing them.

(He was also vaguely amused and not a little miffed at the thought of Aziraphale being afraid of scaring _Crowley_ off. He was a grown man, for crying out loud. He didn’t need to be coddled, and he certainly wasn’t going to run away screaming because his partner was going to get a bit adventurous in bed. Granted, perhaps he wasn’t as experienced as Aziraphale, as odd and frankly disorienting that sounded, but he’d tried _stuff_. Of a sort.)

Crowley licked his lips, feeling something close to a shiver slither down his spine.

“Do you want me to surrender to you?” he asked, voice growing gravelly as the idea took form in his mind, an echo of everything he’d experienced every time they’d had sex fluttering in the back of his mind, shuddering in his blood. “Is that what you want?”

Aziraphale took a deep, trembling breath. A wave of something close to hunger washed away the last traces of guilt and shame from his face, leaving eyes as bright as stars in its wake.

“_Yes_,” he whispered, voice low and rough, almost a growl. The moment lingered, quiet and oddly charged, until Aziraphale glanced away. “But you don’t have to answer straight away. I want you to think about it, and then we’ll have a serious chat about what we want out of this arrangement and what we don’t.”

That sounded a bit cryptic, and Crowley frowned a little as he tried to parse out exactly what Aziraphale meant. His confusion was probably easy to read off his face, since Aziraphale sighed softly and placed his glass on the cluttered desk, before finally reaching out and taking Crowley’s hand.

“This sort of play requires a great deal of trust, which is why I was so reluctant to bring it up so early in our relationship. Everything was just so new, so fresh, that I was unwilling to put it under an undue stress. But I ended up playing with you anyway, and without having discussed terms beforehand. That’s not responsible behaviour for ...” a small pause, “...a Dominant.” Aziraphale tilted his head, searching Crowley’s face. “You do know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”

“If you mean the lingo, yes, I know about it,” Crowley replied, a bit gruffly. He was not _that_ sheltered, whatever Aziraphale thought about his ignorance in matters such as kinky stuff. “That would make me a submissive, I guess.”

Aziraphale hummed, cradling his hand and scooting a bit closer.

“Yes. How do you feel about it?”

Aziraphale’s voice was soft, but not enough to disguise the pointed tone of his question. Crowley knew that he was meant to think seriously about it, that Aziraphale wanted an honest answer, and he took his time to organise his thoughts. There was absolutely nothing he’d disliked about what he and Aziraphale had done together so far, but it was impossible to disjoin the word from the picture of a humiliated man thanking his master for grinding him down into nothing. There was a certain helplessness to the way he felt with Aziraphale sometimes that Crowley rather enjoyed, but he was pretty sure that being made to feel small and insignificant wasn’t something that he would appreciate.

It dawned on him, then, that perhaps that was exactly what Aziraphale had meant with _discussing terms_.

“I’m not sure,” he truthfully answered, “I’ve never thought of myself that way.” And then, because he was close enough to see Aziraphale’s face fall a little, even if he tried to hide it, Crowley added: “But I liked everything we’ve done so far. Very much.”

It was a bit uncomfortable, as far as confessions went, but it was true. And the way Aziraphale’s face lit up made all worth it.

“I’m really glad to hear that, my dear,” he purred, as though Crowley’s thorough enjoyment was some sort of breaking news. As though Crowley hadn’t been very clear and very obvious and very vocal about his appreciations of whatever _play_ Aziraphale got up to. “And I’ll do my best to behave, while you reach a decision. Then we can talk.”

“I don’t think you’ve been irresponsible,” Crowley said, Aziraphale’s previous words finally reaching his overwhelmed brain. “You always asked, before doing anything. You were so... careful.”

More careful than a lot of people Crowley had been with, more careful than _Crowley_ had been with most of his partners, but he wasn’t going to say that. He had an inkling Aziraphale wouldn’t take that sort of sentence very lightly, and Crowley didn’t really want to linger on his past dalliances. Getting or offering a blow job in the back room of a club didn’t require much discussion beforehand, after all, and he didn’t really want to explain _that_ to Aziraphale. Even if it would make him feel a bit less like some sort of inexperienced colt, all in all.

“Consent during a scene and consent before a scene are very different things, darling,” Aziraphale replied, gently stroking his thumb over Crowley’s knuckles. “It can be... difficult to say no, when affected by certain states of mind. That’s why negotiations should happen beforehand.”

Crowley frowned a little at that.

“Are you saying that we have to discuss everything we do before we do it?” he asked, uncertain if he liked the thought or not. He wasn’t really opposed to having Aziraphale telling him with that honeyed voice of his what he intended to do to him, but... “I like being surprised, from time to time.”

“We could do that, when I get to know a bit better your limits and preferences,” Aziraphale reassured him, “but there are things you wouldn’t really like to be surprised with. Trust me.”

“I do,” Crowley blurted out, without really thinking about it beforehand, and surprising himself with the truth of it. “Trust you, that is.”

There was something painfully tender and subtly sad in Aziraphale’s delicate smile, something glittering and fragile like broken glass. But he was right. There were things Crowley wouldn’t really appreciate having sprung on him.

“You have no idea how much I cherish your trust, darling,” Aziraphale murmured, gently taking Crowley’s empty glass and settling it on the crowded desk, before kissing his palm. “And I fully intend to be worthy of it.”

Crowley felt the brush of Aziraphale’s lips against his skin like a spark in his nerve-endings, almost painfully charged. He swallowed thickly, shocked all over again by how tightly Aziraphale could wind him up with a simple kiss on his hand.

“Do you have any other questions, dear?” Aziraphale asked, low and gravelly and a bit hopeful.

Crowley snorted, lightheaded and already half-hard in his jeans.

“They’ll keep,” he answered, cradling Aziraphale’s face in his palms and scooting close enough to press against him, hip to chest, as he let those blue eyes swallow the world. “I think that’s enough talk, for one night.”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale purred, slipping a hand between Crowley’s legs and slowly running his palm against his inner thigh, until he was cupping Crowley’s hardening cock. “I think you might enjoy hearing me talk about what I’m planning to do with you.”

Crowley found that he did have a point, after all. He swallowed hard.

“Which is?” he whispered, thumbing at Aziraphale’s cheeks and gently brushing together the tips of their noses.

Aziraphale hummed under his breath, pressing the heel of his hand against Crowley’s trapped erection.

“It’s a bit too soon for that. But...” A beat. “I received my results. I tested negative. I thought you might want to know, though I suspected it’d have distracted you from the discussion, should I have mentioned that earlier.”

Crowley felt a wave of hunger hit him in his guts like a punch, as his vaguely dazed mind processed Aziraphale’s words.

“Probably,” he growled, finally, _finally_ kissing Aziraphale’s lips, slipping his tongue inside. Aziraphale hummed into the kiss, pressing back, hand heavy and proprietary against Crowley’s hard cock. The taste of him, the scent of his clothes and his skin, the warmth and gentle give of his body, they all compounded to pierce the fragile latticework of Crowley’s flesh and dive deep into his bloodstream, rabid need spreading like a disease in his veins.

Crowley kissed him again, and again, and again, soft kisses, hard kisses, hungry kisses, tumbling one after the other from his parched lips. Aziraphale sighed in his mouth when Crowley’s long fingers traced the hard shells of his ears, then dipped lower, knuckles brushing the ridge of his jaw and thumb reaching the collar of his shirt, starched and rigid against the gentle give of flesh. Crowley’s cock was aching in the tight constriction of his jeans, and he keened, relieved and shuddering, when Aziraphale gently thumbed them open and pulled down the zip.

“Here, darling,” he whispered, pressing his palm against Crowley’s quivering belly and reaching down in his pants to brush the root of Crowley’s trapped cock with his fingertips. “My sweet Crowley.”

Crowley groaned at the touch, at the tender words, and slipped a hand between Aziraphale’s thighs to squeeze his cock. Aziraphale was hard in his pressed pants, and sighed softly at the touch.

“I want to blow you,” Crowley whispered, an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders as he palmed his erection. “Please. Let me taste you. I need to get my mouth on you. _Please_.”

It was with a certain amount of satisfaction that he felt Aziraphale’s hand wind tightly into his hair to bring his mouth down into a hungry kiss. Crowley wasn’t exactly the fastest learner, but he _could_ learn, and it didn’t exactly require a monstrous amount of introspection to guess that Aziraphale liked to hear him beg.

It should’ve been a rather troubling thought, but it was difficult to find exception to the humiliating implication of that word when Aziraphale was so violently turned on in his arms he was nearly shaking with it. His eyes were blazing when he looked up, hand tenderly cradling Crowley’s cheek as the other pressed with almost vicious strength against his trapped cock.

“You’re pushing, darling,” Aziraphale whispered, something sharp and vaguely, tantalisingly dangerous glinting in his blue eyes. “You should tread more carefully. I am but a man, and I’ve never been very good at resisting temptations.”

There was something in his face, in his words, that yanked a shudder out of Crowley’s bristling muscles. His clothes felt uncomfortable, all of a sudden, tight and warm and clinging to his skin in a way that made him itch to tear them off.

He blinked, out of breath and with the steady rush of his blood thundering in his ears as Aziraphale slowly pulled back. Crowley almost keened at the loss of the steady pressure of Aziraphale’s hand against his aching cock, and even worse at the loss of the wondrous heat of his body, clinging to his skin like static energy for a moment before dissipating in the cool air of the flat.

He could do little but stare as Aziraphale settled comfortably against the backrest of his couch and laid his hands on his own thighs, spreading his legs in obvious invitation.

“Well?” he purred, smug and maddeningly unruffled with how obviously turned on he was. His hard cock was straining his primly pressed pants and there was a fetching blush on his cheeks, but that aside, the man could’ve easily walked down the street without arousing any sort of suspicion.

Crowley inhaled sharply at the sight. There was something in Aziraphale’s pointed control that he found hopelessly enticing, there was no use in denying it. It spoke only too clearly to that hidden side of himself that recognised with uncomfortable clarity the unpredictable chaos surrounding him, the same side that found following instructions somehow soothing. The same side that apparently spoke to Aziraphale’s controlling nature in a tongue that Crowley only partially understood.

Crowley licked his lips, slowly getting up on his feet. He could feel the weight of Aziraphale’s eyes pressing on him, racking his frame up and down, as heavy as a touch.

“You want me to kneel,” Crowley whispered, the pull and push of that play easier to spot, now that he knew the rules. He saw Aziraphale’s sharp intake of breath, the way his eyes went round, wide, _hungry_, and he wondered how he could have missed the signs. They were so obvious, now. And so easy to coax gently into the light.

It was with a pang of surprise that Crowley realised that he liked that, control skittering back and forth between them, waiting for someone to seize it fully and force the other to _bend_. Crowley doubted that he would ever get used to a huge chunk of the stuff he’d seen connected to the concept, but that, _that_ he liked well enough. And from the look in Aziraphale’s eyes, he wasn’t alone in that.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale groaned, in lieu of an answer. He was trying to behave, but he was struggling, and Crowley suddenly didn’t really want him to. He wanted to know for himself exactly what being at the receiving end of an exertion of power would feel like.

“Do you want me to strip first?”

Aziraphale’s intake of breath was so sharp that Crowley heard it all the way from where he stood, and his blue eyes were huge and dark as Aziraphale stared up at him, the eyes of a starving thing skulking in the shadows.

“You’re dangling in front of me something that I want so badly I almost endangered this relationship to get,” Aziraphale choked out, voice low and gravelly and nearly pained as he blinked away with a shudder. “I hope you know how cruel it would be to take it away.”

Crowley felt something constrict painfully in his chest, and he bent down, cradling Aziraphale’s precious face in his palms. Aziraphale’s eyes were haunted as they sank into Crowley’s, bright and a bit sad, and Crowley’s heart cracked a little at the naked need shimmering there.

“That’s really not the sort of play I have in mind,” he whispered, trying to convey a measure of tenderness with his soft voice. “I told you already. I want to try. I’ll need some time to process some of the other... stuff. But I like being told what to do. I like being told how good I am. And I like... I like feeling a little helpless, at times.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed, with a shuddering, almost wet voice, as he placed his palms against the hands still cradling his face. Crowley kissed his forehead, his cheeks, the lids of his closed eyes, ignoring the devastating tenderness he was giving away with every touch, how desperately fond he was of this man he was holding so gently.

“You’ve done this already,” Crowley went on, voice still low and embarrassingly sweet, but a bit more pointed now. “Stripping me naked and keeping your clothes on as you... _played_ with me. I didn’t exactly recognise that for what it was before, but I think I know, now. And I liked it. I know I did.”

There was a shine in Aziraphale’s eyes that looked alarmingly like tears as he glanced up, searching Crowley’s face with a look of such abject adoration that Crowley nearly felt his knees buckle under the strain.

“My darling Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, turning his head just enough to place a small kiss on the heel of Crowley’s hand. “You are too good to me.”

For a bristling, almost aching moment, Crowley _felt_ for this man with such a violence that he thought distantly it would tear him apart. But then that raging sort of sentiment slowly receded, and Crowley could breathe again.

“Let me do this for you,” he whispered, pressing his forehead against Aziraphale’s and breathing his same air. Aziraphale sighed, then nodded slightly, lowering his hands. Crowley let him go, pulling back just enough to look at him in the eye.

“All right.” A beat, and then, clearly, sweetly, and yet shimmering with a strength that Crowley felt all the way up to his nape: “Take your clothes off for me, darling. Let me see you.”

Crowley licked his lip and straightened up, something wicked slithering down his spine.

“Yes,” he croaked, a bit mortified by how gravelly his voice sounded. But the look in Aziraphale’s eyes quickly chased that feeling away, sweeping the desolated, web-covered dusty places in Crowley’s mind until there was nothing left, no doubt and no fear and no shame. His eyes shone like stars in the dusky shade of Crowley’s shadow, and even if he had to keep his head upturned to look at him from his seat on the couch, Crowley could somehow feel the piercing grasps of those eyes like a firm touch, easing him forward.

Crowley swallowed, thick and suddenly, violently turned on, as he loosened the knot of his tie and pulled it off. Aziraphale’s eyes never wavered, barely blinked, as he followed the path of naked skin revealed by every button that Crowley undid on his shirt, and brushed the tender, vulnerable flesh of Crowley’s stomach like a caress as he undid his cufflink and finally pulled off his shirt.

“You are a piece of art, my dear,” Aziraphale breathed, hands firmly planted on his thighs, but a starving look in his eyes as if he was barely refraining from reaching out. “I thought I could control myself, I really did. But I was a fool.”

Crowley shuddered at the praise, at the charged look, feeling something coming undone somewhere deep into his bones. He looked away with a shiver, shaking hands struggling to pull down his jeans and pants around his bony hips.

“If I could have my way, you would never leave my bed,” Aziraphale whispered, fingers digging into his thighs, colour high and burning on his cheeks. “I would keep you there and use my fingers and my mouth and my arse and my cock to yank climax after climax out of you.”

Crowley couldn’t remember to have ever heard such language tumble out from Aziraphale’s lips before, and it hit him, low and hard and almost cruel, as his own cock went from slowly stiffening to raging hard so quickly he felt the pull of blood rushing south like a yank under the skin. He groaned, floundering with hands made clumsy by sheer arousal to get his blasted jeans off all the way. He pushed them down to his feet and stepped out of them on unsteady legs, tottering a bit as he got rid of his socks and then finally, finally stood naked between Aziraphale’s legs.

“Wait, darling,” Aziraphale said, before Crowley could lower himself down onto the floor. “The hardwood is not easy on the knees, and this carpet helps exactly nothing in the matter.” He took a chequered pillow from the couch and dropped it between his feet. “Here. That’s better.”

Crowley felt something lodge in his throat at the tenderness of the gesture, and even more as Aziraphale reached out with both hands and the loveliest smile.

“Come here, sweetheart,” he murmured, and Crowley could do nothing but take those outstretched hands and let himself be carefully led between Aziraphale splayed thighs. The pillow was plush under his bony knees, and Crowley almost felt like crying at the touch of loving hands against his cheeks.

There was an indescribable look in Aziraphale’s eyes as he gazed down at Crowley, some sort of ravaging, hungry tenderness, something that should’ve been too soft to be so impossibly sharp. Crowley leant into the touch on his cheek with a sigh, heavy lids drooping over tired eyes, and let Aziraphale gently guide him towards his straining cock. He braced himself on Aziraphale’s legs, hands splayed in the sweet dips where thighs met hipbones, and pressed his face against Aziraphale’s crotch.

Crowley felt the deep, unsteady sigh tumbling out of Aziraphale’s mouth like a shiver skidding across his shoulders, and he took a deep breath, taking in Aziraphale’s strong scent as he nuzzled at his hard cock through his pressed trousers. He could feel the rabid thumping of his own heart in his ears, in his temples, his skin warm and pebbled in goosebumps in the cool flat, but he mostly felt an almost unbearable sense of calm and security, safely enclosed as he was between Aziraphale’s legs. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to be. His riotous mind slowed down in stutters and jerks as the only inputs coming from the outside world were the solidity of Aziraphale’s body, the warmth of his flesh under the rustling clothes and the touch of his hands against the back of Crowley’s head. He was safe there, kneeling in silence between those sturdy thighs. Aziraphale’s body was keeping the world at bay, and Crowley finally, _finally_ let himself go, revelling in the quiet, in the physical perception of Aziraphale’s body as the beginning and the end of existence.

“My lovely Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, short, manicured nails scratching Crowley’s sensitive nape. “Look at you. So perfect. You have no idea how precious you are to me.”

The praise washed over Crowley’s lumbering mind like a spark, making his nerve-endings tingle. He moaned against the straining cloth of Aziraphale’s pants, rubbing his cheek against the delicious hardness of his cock.

Aziraphale groaned at the touch, and then he was pulling Crowley’s head back a little. Crowley forced his drooping lids to flutter open, taking in Aziraphale’s tense, red face with a lazy blink.

“Will you use your mouth on me now, sweetheart?” Aziraphale breathed, caressing Crowley’s cheek. He ran his thumb over Crowley’s lower lip, and Crowley obediently parted his mouth, sucking gently on the tip.

“You maddening creature,” Aziraphale gasped, something raw and something shuddering in his voice. Then he took his hands away, quickly unbuckling his belt and shoving his pressed trousers and pants down. He sighed in relief when his hard, weeping cock sprang free.

It was just as lovely as Crowley remembered. Ever more so, because he’d never had the actual chance to see it from so up close before. The skin was tight and almost translucent along the shaft, highlighting a few thick veins that Crowley craved to trace with his tongue, and the head was dark and straining and lovely, damp and soft-looking, curved in a perfect arch towards Aziraphale’s still-clothed belly. The blond tuft of hairs at his crotch were so light they looked white, carelessly groomed and covering in patches the heavy sack hanging under the root of his prick.

A wave of hunger slammed into Crowley like a hammer, and he licked his lips, fingers sinking in the meat of Aziraphale’s thighs for a moment before reaching for that lovely cock.

“Yes, darling, like that,” Aziraphale crooned, breath stuttering in his chest as Crowley gently rolled Aziraphale’s balls in the palm of his hand, testing their weight, appraising the softness of the skin as he thumbed the dip in between. He bent to press a string of slow, lazy kisses to the heavy sack, his other hand curling gently against the straining shaft as Aziraphale’s fingers sunk into his hair.

“How wonderful you are, oh, darling, your clever, lovely mouth,” Aziraphale babbled, warm and shuddering, as Crowley nuzzled his shaft up to the very tip and licked away a drop of precome from the delicate slit. He swallowed the taste of him, salty and glorious and so perfectly Aziraphale that Crowley could only open his lips around the head and suck, tongue pushing into the slit.

The broken groan he got for his trouble spurred him on like a cattle prod, and soon Crowley’s mouth was stretched around the thick, heavy girth of Aziraphale’s shaft, as he lowered his head enough to kiss his fist in the middle. The tip of Aziraphale’s hard prick was resting on the back of his tongue, and Crowley sucked on it, hand twisting around the base as he pulled up just enough to rub his lips against the sensitive stripe under the flared cockhead before sinking down again. Aziraphale felt hot and heavy and deliciously vulnerable inside his mouth, skin as smooth as silk, and something warm and soft shuddered deep into Crowley’s flesh at the familiar thought of holding something so fragile between his teeth. He bobbed a few times up and down Aziraphale’s shaft before pulling away, planting a string of sucking kisses all over the weeping cockhead before lapping at the slit. He looked up, then, mouth open wide with the tip of Aziraphale’s cock encased in the divot of his tongue, neatly in display, and Aziraphale’s face twisted as a violent shudder racked his frame.

“You wicked, gorgeous man, taunting me so,” Aziraphale growled, his hand locking around Crowley’s bony nape. “You make me want to take your mouth, instead of allowing you the power to drive me insane.”

Something about his voice, low and stripped raw, reached Crowley deep, even deeper than the words. He shuddered, mind reeling at the thought of Aziraphale feeding him his cock, fucking his throat. He keened, a quivering, brittle sound, and didn’t fight the pull as Aziraphale guided him gently to take his cock back into his mouth.

“Ssh, not today, sweetheart,” Aziraphale whispered, impossibly tender, as Crowley closed his eyes and relaxed at the feeling of Aziraphale’s heavy cock safely ensconced into his mouth. “You’re already doing so well, taking me so deep inside. A little more, perhaps? Like that, yes, darling. How good, how lovely you are.”

The weight of those praises, raining on him like an April shower, piled up over his shoulders in smooth, sticky layers, sequestering him from everything that wasn’t the glorious feeling of Aziraphale’s cock brushing the back of his throat one piece at a time, carving a place for that gloriously thick cockhead of his. Crowley might have been woefully inexperienced in some stuff, but that he knew, and knew well. He barely felt the half-hearted protest of the muscles at the back of his throat as he swallowed around Aziraphale’s shaft, taking him deep enough to sink his nose into the cotton-tuft white hairs crowning the base, before letting up again.

“Oh, oh, sweetheart, how good you are, my perfect darling,” Aziraphale babbled, hands leading him on without pushing, fingers twined tightly into his hair. “Taking me so deep.”

Crowley shivered at that, his blood singing with the thick, sticky approval singing in Aziraphale’s voice. He felt his stomach drop at the wave of arousal that hit him with such dramatic violence it left him lightheaded, as he pulled up just enough to breathe hard through his nose around the thick, heavy girth of Aziraphale’s cock, resting against his tongue.

He was so hard he ached, but reaching between his legs to take hold of his own leaking prick felt like an afterthought, vaguely surfacing in his wired-up brain between one bob of his head and the next. His right hand fell into the well-known rhythm of push and pull up and down the straining shaft, mechanical and perfunctory, while the other sank fingers like claw into the giving flesh of Aziraphale’s sturdy thigh. Crowley relished the warmth of him, burning hot even through the layer of his pressed pants, just like he relished the ache at the back of his throat, or the steady, strangled throb of his tightening ball, his clenching hole.

“My beautiful darling. Look at you. Kneeling naked at my feet, your eyes closed, your hand between your thighs, your mouth so deliciously full. You are a vision, dearest.” He was panting, his voice coming in broken huffs. “I want to feel myself inside of you, darling. May I touch your throat?”

Crowley felt the keen tremble onto his tongue almost as if it was happening to someone else, his cock twitching between his thighs, balls drawing up as he skirted the edge of coming undone before slithering back to an uncomfortable level of painful arousal. He opened his eyes and looked up, staring straight at Aziraphale as he pulled up enough to swirl his tongue around the crown. He didn’t feel like talking, he wasn’t sure he remembered how to, and somehow Aziraphale seemed to read that straight off his face. He brushed gently Crowley’s hand pressed against his thigh, smiling even through the gasping breaths.

“One tap for yes, darling, two for no.”

It took Crowley a long moment to parse out what that meant, but then he slapped his hand against Aziraphale’s thigh, once–perhaps with a little too much enthusiasm, given how loud the smacking sound had sounded in the silence. Crowley choked something close to a laugh around the weight of Aziraphale’s cock, and Aziraphale let out a groaning sort of snort.

“A tap will suffice next time, dear,” Aziraphale chided him, mock-cross and breathless, as he wrapped his hand around Crowley’s neck and brushed a thumb across his throat.

It hit Crowley too fast and too violently to do anything to stop it. The moment he felt those fingers close around his neck, Crowley was done for, balls drawing up, cock throbbing as he came with shocking violence, his body convulsing in the double cage of Aziraphale’s thighs and his hand, throat fluttering around the prick shoved as far as it would go inside his mouth. He keened around it, around Aziraphale’s pulsing, hot flesh, with barely enough wherewithal left to clamp a hand around his own cockhead to avoid striping Aziraphale’s cock with his come. He keened and wailed, skin pulling at the onslaught of electric, drowning pleasure, blood burning in his vein, guts twisting in his taut, shuddering belly.

“Oh, darling, I’m, I can’t, I’m going to...” he heard Aziraphale saying, through the silence ringing in his ears, but even if he couldn’t really understand the words, he felt him try to get away, to slip out of his mouth, and Crowley wasn’t going to let him. He twisted his hand around Aziraphale’s waistcoat and pulled up just enough to slam back down, swallowing around the thick cockhead until Aziraphale was coming, too, thick hot spurts shot so far into his throat that Crowley couldn’t even taste him. He pulled up slightly, and the last, weak dribble landed on the back of his tongue, Aziraphale’s flavour exploding on his taste buds thick and heavy and lovely. Crowley licked and sucked on the delicate head until Aziraphale was gently pushing him away with shaking hands, and Crowley cradled the softening shaft in his free hand as he let himself be pulled off.

Aziraphale’s eyes were clouded and heavy-lidded and so warm Crowley felt the kiss of fire on his face as Aziraphale looked down at him.

“My perfect, darling Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed, stroking his face with impossible tenderness as Crowley rested his cheek against his palm. “That was wonderful. Thank you.”

Crowley wasn’t sure how he felt about being thanked for a blow job, but he was too tired and content right then and there to give it much thought. He turned his head to kiss Aziraphale’s palm, eyes fluttering close without any sort of conscious decision. He felt heavy, and warm, and cared for. He felt content, a sort of drowsy, swirling sort of happiness that he didn’t think he’d ever experienced before, as though every voice in his head was silenced, and not one single thought was shuddering in the vast, silent plane of his mind. Every limb seemed to weigh a ton, his weary head too heavy for his neck, and Crowley sighed in soft relief when Aziraphale gently led him to press his temple against that sturdy thigh. Crowley barely felt his own clean hand slip in the dip between his thighs, joining the other on the pillow, and he leant his weight on the safe harbour of Aziraphale’s body, trusting Aziraphale to keep him up, to keep him safe.

“Close your eyes, dearest, and rest a while,” Aziraphale encouraged him, voice soft and dripping honey. He’d brought both hands back to Crowley’s head, and was slowly playing with his hair in a way that only compounded to that feeling of drowsy, fuzzy contentment. “I’ll keep you warm.”

It sounded like an excellent idea. Crowley relaxed every single muscle on his body and did just that, lulled gently by the touch of Aziraphale’s hands and the familiar scent of his skin.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no more words left to thank such a talented [artist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uponwhatgrounds/pseuds/uponwhatgrounds) for gifting me with yet another gorgeous [piece of art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24000142/chapters/58082707). I hope that all my love will suffice <3  
And thank you all for cheering me on. You are the best readers a writer could wish for, and I hope you’re safe in these terrible times.

It took Crowley a long, confusing moment to recognise the annoying texture grazing the bare skin of his back as his own shirt. He spent several minutes staring at the black pieces of fabric hanging from his shoulders and down his arms before the recognition finally kicked in, and as he lifted his hand to brush questioningly at the dangling sleeves he discovered that his palm and fingers were speckled with drying come, well on its way from cooling goo to sticky crust.

He lifted his gaze with bleary effort, taking in the sight of beige corduroy and white underwear a scant inch from his face. There was a steady, warm weight holding his head in place, and a familiar scent in his nostril, skin and lavender and sweat, and old books and older dust. Crowley slowly took stock of his naked limbs, realising that he was kneeling on the floor, with Aziraphale’s legs bracketing his shoulders.

Memories came trickling back, then. He took a deep breath, revelling in the soothing scent of Aziraphale, as he stirred and tried to look up. He got a gentle snore for his trouble, and as Aziraphale’s hand slipped off his head, Crowley realised with no small amount of amusement that Aziraphale had fallen asleep stroking his hair. There was something almost heartbreaking in the picture he cut, slumped on the couch with a relaxed, content expression on his face. He was smiling in his sleep, and Crowley thought that the scorching wave of tenderness cresting in his chest was nothing short than unfair.

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that, kneeling naked on the blasted floor and staring up at a snoring Aziraphale with the silliest smile known to man plastered all over his face, but eventually his brain managed to reboot and Crowley was blessed with the realisation that if he was cold and aching and tired there was very a simple solution to that quandary, and that solution was the very old but surprisingly plush bed Aziraphale kept barely a door away.

It took some effort to unravel his limbs, but eventually Crowley managed to force his stiffened joints into compliance and stood on unsteady legs. His knees protested at the abuse, and Crowley felt a wave of gratitude for Aziraphale and his foresight in placing a pillow onto the floor before leading him to kneel between his legs. The memory flashed like a spark into his mind, and Crowley swallowed hard at the simmering heat and impossible fondness glinting in its wake. Aziraphale looked vulnerable in a way that squeezed Crowley’s heart like a fist as he slept peacefully away, hands lolling limply between his thighs and a pillow striped with come between his feet. He’d obviously taken the time to cover Crowley up and to tuck his own cock back into his pants, but he’d left his trousers where they were, unbelted and hanging open under his meticulously buttoned-up waistcoat.

Crowley would’ve probably lingered a good while longer if his bladder hadn’t taken the situation more or less literally in hand and reminded him rather sharply why he’d woken up from a naked nap between Aziraphale’s thighs. Pushed forwards by more urgent needs than his ridiculous heart, Crowley dropped his useless shirt onto the couch and shuffled all the way to the bathroom, where he took the longest piss of his life before hopping into the shower and washing the come and grim off his skin. He dried himself up with one of the clean towels he suspected Aziraphale kept leaving there for his sole benefit, then hung it on a peg by the tub and went back to the living room to rummage in his overnight bag for some clean sleepwear. Aziraphale was still snoring away, and didn’t wake up even when Crowley stuffed his dirty clothes into his bag and took a second trip to the bathroom to wash his teeth and get ready for bed.

It was such a sappy thing to do that Crowley felt almost embarrassed for himself as he sat down on the couch and gently leant over, but he didn’t regret a thing as he pressed his lips over Aziraphale’s slack mouth and caressed his sleep-warm face. He was welcomed by the sight of hazy blue eyes as he pulled back, and chuckled softly under his breath as he stroked his knuckles against Aziraphale’s jaw.

“Let’s go to bed, hmm?” Crowley purred, kissing him again. Aziraphale sighed at the soft touch of lips, and kissed him back, sleepily, but lingering, until Crowley forced himself to move out of range.

“Hello, darling,” Aziraphale murmured, stroking Crowley’s cheek. “I must have fallen asleep.”

“We both did,” Crowley chuckled. “That was a little more... exhausting than I thought it would be.”

“Hmm.” A gentle brush across his throat. “How are you feeling, darling?”

Crowley felt the touch, the concern, down to his bones. He pulled away, vaguely horrified as a wave of heat washed over his cheeks.

“’m fine, angel, ‘s not the first time I blew someone, you know,” he grumbled, immediately regretting his words as Aziraphale’s drowsy, content face fell a little. “’m ok, truly,” he quickly added, blabbering a bit and not caring in the slightest, “aching a little but all right. ‘m not even cold. You covered me up.”

Aziraphale’s forehead scrunched up in a lovely little frown, before smoothing out again.

“That flimsy thing you call a shirt wasn’t even remotely up to the task,” he rumbled, something a bit wicked flickering in his face, “but I was sitting on the blanket and didn’t want to jostle you, so I grabbed the first thing within reach.”

Crowley scoffed, the idle teasing softening a little the sharp spike of that unbearable intimacy.

“I’ll have you know that’s pure silk, and at least as expensive as one of those prophecy books you are hoarding in here,” Crowley haughtily bit back, getting a scoff for an answer. But he felt way too blissful and worn out to hold his smug smirk for long, and soon it was softening into a delicate, foolish smile. “It was... good. Very good.”

There was an aching tenderness in Aziraphale’s eyes, as the man reached for Crowley’s naked face. Crowley closed his eyes and pressed his cheek blindly into Aziraphale’s palm, his breath leaving his throat in a soft sigh.

“It was,” Aziraphale murmured, thumbing Crowley’s lips. “You were so good for me, sweetheart.”

“Hmm. ‘m sorry for the pillow, though.”

“The pillow?” Aziraphale repeated, before looking down at the come-streaked, pitiful thing. “Oh, I see. It’s fine, it will wash away. Don’t worry about it.”

Crowley didn’t really know what to answer to that, so he kissed Aziraphale again, stroking his chest.

“Bed, angel,” he rumbled, when Aziraphale answered to the touch with a little more tongue than a parting kiss strictly required. Aziraphale hummed against his lips, then pulled back with a sigh.

“Fine, bed.” His blue eyes raked up and down Crowley’s frame. “You’re ready to jump in already, I see.”

“You were snoring so enthusiastically that I was loathe to wake you up, angel,” Crowley snickered, ignoring Aziraphale’s scoff and pulling himself up. “Come, your bed is older than your books but at least it’s more comfortable than your couch.”

“I resent that statement,” Aziraphale grumbled, even as he pushed himself laboriously to his feet.

Crowley was already under the covers by the time Aziraphale joined him. He turned to take Aziraphale into his arms, and Aziraphale went willingly, winding himself up around Crowley as they exchanged lazy, sleepy kisses. That feeling of almost heavy euphoria was spreading once again in his bloodstream, and Crowley felt pleasantly tired and impossibly relaxed, dipped in a peace so thick it stuck to his skin like honey as he kissed Aziraphale’s soft lips ever so slowly, lingering touches that became fewer and farther between, until he fell asleep while nuzzling the hollow of Aziraphale’s throat.

He woke up later during the night to take a piss, and got his fair share of sleepy grumbles before Aziraphale, who in the meantime had curled around his back like a limpet, magnanimously conceded Crowley the right to go to the bathroom, provided that he returned in a hurry. Crowley was chuckling softly to himself as he padded away, and when he came back he curled around Aziraphale’s warm body and pressed his face into the soft hollow between Aziraphale’s shoulder blades, breathing him in. He was still holding Aziraphale close in a death grip when an uncomfortable blaze of light woke him up, several hours later, together with the buzz and rumble of London traffic in the morning.

Crowley blinked his eyes open in a spike of confusion, disoriented and wondering for a moment if he was late for work. Aziraphale’s bedroom was way brighter than usual, and noisy, and vaguely different, and it took Crowley a moment to remember that he wasn’t supposed to go anywhere that morning. He groped about for his phone and confirmed that it was well past ten, then dropped it back on the night table and moulded his chest to Aziraphale’s back. He wasn’t really going to fall asleep again, but he liked to laze in bed as long as he could during the weekend, and he wasn’t certainly going to get up any time soon when he had the chance to cuddle up to Aziraphale’s warm, welcoming body. He couldn’t remember the last time he had a morning such as that, and he realised with a thorough lack of surprise that he _liked_ it, waking up with someone. It was soft and warm and it chased away the sticky tendril of a loneliness he hadn’t really allowed himself to feel for most of his life.

Such a silly, sappy man he was. But he didn’t care one bit about that, or anything, really, not as he nuzzled the short hair on Aziraphale’s nape and kissed softly the first bony bump of his spine.

Aziraphale wasn’t a particularly light sleeper, but he was bound to notice something, at some point. Such as the morning erection that Crowley was rather unsubtly grinding against his arse, or the hand Crowley had snuck under his shirt to press against his naked belly.

“Good morning, darling,” Aziraphale mumbled, stirring in Crowley’s arms. Crowley loosened his grasp, allowing Aziraphale to stretch a bit his cramped muscles, but didn’t take his hand out of Aziraphale’s shirt.

“Good morning, angel,” he purred into his ear, before gently nipping the hard shell. Aziraphale chuckled softly at the touch, and then twisted in Crowley’s arms enough to plant a sleepy kiss on his lips.

“Up already?” Aziraphale said with a grin, wriggling his arse rather pointedly against Crowley’s stiffening prick. Crowley scoffed at the terrible pun, and punished Aziraphale with a sharper nip at his sensitive lobe. Aziraphale hummed in approval and pressed back even tighter, grinding against Crowley’s cock more purposely this time.

“Angel,” Crowley groaned, rubbing his face against the soft cotton-tufts of Aziraphale’s hair. He decided that all that wriggling about was as good a permission as any, and pulled Aziraphale closer with a gentle hand on that soft hip until his hard cock was pressed right along the cleft of Aziraphale’s glorious arse, even with all those rather useless layers of clothing in the way.

“Is this how you want to take your pleasure this morning, sweetheart?” Aziraphale crooned, reaching behind to grasp Crowley’s hip and matching Crowley’s thrusts against the small of his back with the same level of enthusiasm.

“Rubbing one off against your lovely arse?” Crowley gasped, the pressure against his aching cock and the prickling whisper of Aziraphale’s voice combining to drip into his bloodstream like gasoline. “Yes, if you’re amenable.”

“Of course I am, darling,” Aziraphale purred, reaching for the hand Crowley had still wrapped around his hip and gently peeling it off. Crowley snuck his free arm under Aziraphale’s side and fisted the loose cloth of his tartan shirt, while Aziraphale kissed the palm of the hand he’d captured with a sweetness that was almost incongruous with the filthy grinding of his hips against Crowley’s hard cock. “Would _you_ be amenable to touch me?”

“Always,” Crowley groaned, and Aziraphale wasted no time to push Crowley’s hand into his pants until Crowley’s fingertips were brushing the tuft of hairs crowning his hardening shaft. Crowley pressed his nose against Aziraphale’s nape and let out a shuddering sigh, as he sank his hand lower and took hold of Aziraphale’s lovely cock.

“Like that, darling,” Aziraphale cooed, arching his back against Crowley’s chest and grasping his hip with bruising strength. “Oh, yes, sweetheart. How good you are. My precious Crowley.”

The words tumbled down Crowley’s spine like a shiver, and he keened softly against Aziraphale’s nape, hips snapping against that delectable arse as he stroked Aziraphale’s cock until it was fully hard and weeping in his fist. It was hot under the covers, almost stifling, and Crowley could feel sweat trickling down his spine, muscles protesting at that cramped position, but Aziraphale was wondrously warm and soft in his arms, alive and addictive, the press of his body and the scent of his skin familiar in a way that was almost painful, almost cruel. Crowley groaned into Aziraphale’s hair, pleasure swirling in his blood in a heady tide, reaching its peak as he came in stuttering thrusts against Aziraphale’s arse almost without warning.

“‘m sssorry,” he breathed against Aziraphale’s skin, still reeling from his high. He was shivering all over, body struggling to adjust after that wild ride between peaceful sleep and spiking arousal and nearly painful release, and his heart was thundering in his chest like a war drum as he sucked in air in heavy gasp in the sweet hollow of Aziraphale’s neck.

“Whatever for, my darling boy?” Aziraphale hummed, squeezing gently Crowley’s hip. “You were lovely. My dearest Crowley, always so vulnerable when you peak.”

It was too much, too soon. The way Aziraphale’s purring voice seemed always to pluck a cord so deep inside Crowley’s body that he couldn’t help but ride the vibrating note was impossible to stop, impossible to resist. He shuddered against Aziraphale’s back, his softening cock twitching helplessly at the onslaught, and breathed something uncomfortably close to a sob against Aziraphale’s warm, delicate nape.

“My sweet Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, gentle now, impossibly tender. Crowley kissed his neck and struggled to get a grip on himself, ordering his reeling body rather sternly to get back to its task, namely the pitifully aborted hand job that had left the poor man hanging. Aziraphale was still hard in his loosened fist, and sighed contentedly when Crowley resumed his steady stroking, nibbling at the taut skin of Aziraphale’s nape as he pulled on that delectable cock and twisted his hand just right around the head in the upstroke to get him to come with a shuddering, pleased groan into his pants.

They lay in silence for a while after, basking in each other’s warm. Crowley debated whether to take his hand out of Aziraphale’s underwear, but since no protest was forthcoming, he left it were it was, gently cradling Aziraphale’s softening cock as they took slow, measured breaths, while their hearts slowed down and sweat beaded on their cooling bodies. Eventually, Aziraphale twisted in his arms, and Crowley ended up cradling one of his arsecheeks instead of his cock, smearing sticky come everywhere. Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind, merely stroking Crowley’s chest and pressing lazy, sticky kisses against his lips.

“That was lovely,” Aziraphale sighed, cradling Crowley’s face in his hands.

“Yes,” Crowley agreed, because he wasn’t sure what else to say. Aziraphale hummed in reply, and kissed Crowley’s lips again, his nose, his forehead, while his thumbs stroked Crowley’s cheekbones ever so tenderly.

Crowley felt the affection of each gesture like a blow, hitting deep inside, almost too fierce and too sharp to be born. He closed his eyes and let out a shuddering breath, fingers sinking in the giving flesh of Aziraphale’s arse as Crowley held him close.

“What are you in the mood for now, darling?” Aziraphale purred, brushing their noses together.

Crowley cracked an eye open.

“I know a trick question when I hear one,” he grumbled, swallowing Aziraphale’s chuckle with a kiss. “What are _you_ in the mood for, angel?”

“Breakfast,” Aziraphale sighed, kissing Crowley again. “A greasy, heavy, delicious cooked breakfast.”

Crowley hummed, unwittingly mollified by that shower of lazy kisses.

“I could whip something up for you, if you liked,” he offered, almost flooring himself on the spot. “’m not much of a cook, but breakfast is within my powers.”

Crowley wasn’t apparently the only one thoroughly surprised by his impulsive offer, because Aziraphale hesitated a long moment before answering. The silence went on long enough that Crowley risked taking a peek at Aziraphale’s face, at the fondness shimmering in his eyes, and quickly closed his eyes again, tucking his face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck.

“Oh, darling. That would be _lovely_,” Aziraphale sighed, stroking Crowley’s hair in a way that made Crowley melt in his arms. “But I’m afraid that my kitchen is not exactly... up for the challenge.”

“You lazy man,” Crowley snickered, “when was the last time you bought anything that wasn’t tea at the store?”

“I’ll have you know,” Aziraphale answered, with no small amount of wounded pride, “that I also buy quite regularly milk and sugar and washing powder. I’m not a _complete_ savage.”

“Hopefully not to use all at once,” Crowley laughed, openly and pointedly, getting a playful swat on his arm for his trouble.

“I will overlook your cheek, this time,” Aziraphale primly declared, lips pressed together in a thin line even as his eyes betrayed bubbling humour. “But do not think I’ll let you get away with it so easily, in the future.”

Crowley studied Aziraphale’s eyes for a long moment, before settling more comfortably against the cushions.

“Punishment. Is that it?”

That was enough to shatter the easy mood, but though it sobered Aziraphale up rather quickly, he wasn’t nowhere as tense as usual as he searched Crowley’s face.

“If it’s something you might enjoy,” Aziraphale answered, a bit guardedly, before letting out a deep sigh and relaxing against the pillows. “As I said, it’s not a requirement. There are many things we can do without bringing pain into play. And it’s not about pain either, not exactly. Not for me.”

“It’s about vulnerability,” Crowley guessed, in a spark of understanding. “Putting me in a position of having to take what you give me.”

Aziraphale ducked his head, as if in embarrassment.

“Yes.”

Crowley thought it over.

“I meant what I said, you know. About wanting to try.” A beat. “Well, try something _more_. What we’re doing right now is easily the best sex I’ve ever had, so... there is that.”

Aziraphale’s eyes were unbearably bright as he stroked Crowley’s cheek with something too close to reverence for comfort, but Crowley couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but take that drowning affection, like he’d been made to take the tenderness, the gentleness, the aching sweetness of every single touch Aziraphale had ever given him. It was too much, it _burnt_, in a way, and Crowley wanted it like he’d never quite wanted anything else.

“How impossibly perfect you are, my dear, my darling,” Aziraphale whispered, something close to awe in his voice. “And how lucky I was to find you.”

“That’s not luck, angel. That’s Anathema.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale chuckled, and as quickly as it came, the moment fizzled out, and Crowley was able to breathe again. “She’s the clever little witch, isn’t she? I should get her a present. Maybe some antique set of tarot cards.”

Crowley blinked.

“Wait. She’s actually into that stuff?”

“You didn’t know?” Aziraphale laughed. “Apparently she _divined_ that you were supposed to come with me to the wedding. Read it in the stars or something of the like.”

Crowley frowned, trying to remember if she’d ever told him that sort of rubbish. He could vaguely recall something about ley lines and miscellaneous New Age bollocks, but he’d chalked it down to something kids were into those days and left it at that.

“Oh. So, when you say _witch_...”

“I intend it in the old-fashioned meaning of the word, yes,” Aziraphale chuckled, brushing the hinges of Crowley’s jaw with his fingertips. “Maybe she’s onto something there, after all.”

Crowley ducked his head, a bit uncomfortable under the attention, but impossibly pleased.

“Well,” he grumbled, “or maybe she just took the only two gay men older than twenty she knew and decided to pair us off like pandas at the zoo.”

Aziraphale’s laugh was as bright as a bell, and Crowley couldn’t hold in a smile at such joyous sound.

“That could also be the case, yes.” Aziraphale scooted closer to kiss him again, and again, leaving Crowley soft and warm and light-headed. “We’ll need to have a serious talk about boundaries, though. Before we try anything else.”

Crowley hummed distractedly, too busy chasing Aziraphale’s lovely lips to pay much attention to the conversation.

“Now?”

“That’s not the sort of talk that should be had with your hand down my pants, darling,” Aziraphale sternly rebutted, between kisses. “So no, not now.”

Crowley chuckled against his lips, giving his arse an appreciative squeeze.

“So what now, then?”

“Now we get a shower, we get dressed, and we have a nice breakfast.”

“You know a place, I guess,” Crowley sighed, giving up on some more lazy fondling at Aziraphale’s firm voice. He felt a bit too relaxed and comfortable to get up right there and then, but a shower did sound lovely. The drying come in his pants was starting to itch.

“Don’t be silly, my dear boy. Of course I do.”

* * *

The place in question turned out to be, quite predictably, _Heavenly Delights_. Crowley let himself be led to their usual spot and didn’t even try to pretend to look at the menu, as Aziraphale ordered two full breakfasts without losing a beat. Crowley was starting to realise that while Aziraphale liked to try new dishes and cuisines and shops once in a while, he was more of an affectionate customer at heart, with a list of favourite places all over London to which he liked to return over and over and over, unless struck by a sudden whim.

Crowley couldn’t really say he minded. He was much less adventurous than he liked to advertise, and he preferred the reassuring familiarity of a known place than the uncertainty of novelty, and the older he got, the less willing he’d become to face the perils of the unknown when he could simply put his feet up somewhere he knew he’d be comfortable. Perhaps Aziraphale and he were truly more similar and compatible than he’d thought at first, after all.

Crowley planted his elbow on the table and propped up his cheek on his hand, as he watched Aziraphale chatter for five good minutes with the owner about which sort of tea he would be drinking that morning, even if everyone present knew that he was going to get English Breakfast, as it was proper. There was a lightness to him that Crowley could feel in his bones, as though Aziraphale had been shedding a burden weighing him down, and he looked happier because of it, more himself than he usually allowed. He was bubbling and friendly and pleased and almost _glittering_ in the soft light filtering through the curtains, his eyes giving off sparks like a bonfire, and Crowley found himself basking into his presence like a lizard under the sun.

It hit him, then, how _different_ Aziraphale was looking right then and there compared to the man Crowley had met with Anathema an eternity before. How guarded Aziraphale had been, friendly, yes, but not open; self-assured, but not at ease. He’d known who he was well before Crowley had shown up, which Crowley could not really say about himself, but he’d been wearing a string of stones around his neck, and Crowley realised with an almost painful spark of understanding how little of himself Aziraphale usually allowed other people to see, and how lonely that had made him in turn.

Or perhaps Crowley was just projecting, and maybe Aziraphale had friends other than Anathema he was more open with. He wondered suddenly whether Aziraphale did have other friends, and which sort of friends they were, and whether Aziraphale would ever ask him to meet them. Crowley wasn’t sure if he dreaded the prospect more than he’d be wounded by the thought that Aziraphale was keeping him hidden, like some sort of dirty secret.

It wasn’t a particularly comfortable line of thoughts, and Crowley decided that he wasn’t overly interested in investigating it after a rather lovely night and an even better morning, so he pushed it aside and smiled back like the infatuated fool that he was when the owner left and Aziraphale beamed at him. Crowley was wearing his sunglasses, but he doubted by now that anything shorter than a hundred miles and a gigantic wall could hide effectively his emotions from Aziraphale’s perceiving, tender eyes.

They chattered about nothing at all for more than an hour, leaping and skidding from one topic to the next, and since it was already well past noon by the time they emerged from the shop, they decided to go for a walk. It was a lovely autumn morning, one of the very last before winter kicked in, and the air was bracing and fresh under a clear, bright sky. Aziraphale fussed a bit about Crowley’s scarf and insisted to tuck it properly in his coat before carrying on with their stroll, and Crowley let him, trying and failing to wipe a fond smile off his face. They walked past Green Park and decided to brave the tourist hunting grounds that were the pebbled shores of the Serpentine, fenced in by the thick, well-cared-for trees of Hyde Park. The artificial lake was as crowded as expected on that very late Sunday morning (or very early Sunday afternoon), but while Hyde Park was probably the most famous park in London, it was also huge enough that during the off-season one could always find some sort of private spots in which to have a more personal chat.

They were strolling down a narrow path between rare and very old exotic trees when Crowley, who had been worrying at that particular bone for about half an hour, decided to come out with it.

“How did you know?” he blurted out, sticking his hands in the tight pockets of his jeans to simulate a very lousy unconcerned air. “That... you know. Like what you like.”

Aziraphale, who was very busy taking in the beauty of the old, drooping trees surrounding them, turned to cast Crowley a gentle smile. He didn’t seem either taken aback or surprised by the question, which made Crowley’s attempts at dissimulating his obvious interest even more laughable.

“I assume you’re not talking about gorgeous boys,” Aziraphale chuckled back, a pointed look in his eyes that was almost a playful leer.

Crowley scoffed, looking down at his feet, before shrugging.

“Not really. But if you’re volunteering information, well. I’m listening.”

Aziraphale laughed at that, a proper laugh, bright and lovely. He brushed Crowley’s elbow and nodded towards an empty bench, lonely and quiet at the side of the deserted path.

“Let’s take a seat, darling,” Aziraphale encouraged him, and soon they were sitting side by side under a weeping willow, the voices coming from the outside world far off and somewhat muted. It was a peaceful little corner, and Crowley relaxed, sprawling his limbs all over the cold hard bench. He propped his elbow on the upper ridge of the backseat and braced his chin on his knuckles, staring at Aziraphale in a way he hoped would convey that the man had his full attention.

There was a bit of a strain to Aziraphale’s relaxed posture, but he still seemed relaxed enough, and Crowley felt something warm and sticky spread in his chest at the thought that this guarded, cagey man was feeling almost _comfortable_ at sharing something so personal with him. It was humbling, in a way, and it made Crowley’s own reticence pop up even starker.

“Well, then. I can’t really remember a time when I didn’t know I was silly for boys, if you must know,” Aziraphale started off, a little huffy and a little amused, and Crowley mourned his lack of foresight in getting to this conversation right there, instead of waiting to get back home, where he could hold Aziraphale and kiss that little smile off his face. “Mother sent me to a boys-only public school when I was five, so it wasn’t exactly a struggle to realise that the way I liked my classmates as a child was morphing into something else altogether as I got older. School went for me as it went for everyone else, I think, rushed encounters and a few short dalliances and some rather unnecessary drama when a two-week-old relationship with the boy I was absolutely certain was the love of my life ended quite abruptly at his discovery that while he appreciated my company he was quite partial to more ladylike features, after all, and found a girlfriend in his family’s social circle.”

Aziraphale’s eyes were sparkling with mischief as he turned to look at Crowley with a little impish grin on his lips.

“He wasn’t anything of the like, of course, but sixteen-year-old boys can be quite stubborn on the matter,” he carefully added, and Crowley looked away with something that absolutely _wasn’t_ a pout on his lips at the thought that the stab of jealousy he’d tried so hard to conceal could be read off his face so easily. He was a grown man, for crying out loud. And Aziraphale had no right to look so smug about such a little slip.

“Anyway,” Aziraphale carried on, his pleased voice almost a purr, “it wasn’t until I went to Cambridge that I realised I had some rather... peculiar interests. It was the nineties, homosexuality was no longer an illness and we were fighting for equal rights and exploring our sexuality.” A soft chuckle. “I don’t really miss being that young. The drive to change the world and so little understanding of how the world actually works. It’s sad, that when you have finally learnt the rules of the game, you are simply too worn down by the sands of time to do much about it.”

There was an odd pause, then, like a note hanging in the air before dying out. Crowley had come to know Aziraphale enough to feel the weight of things not said in that bristling silence, but also to recognize that a question, right then and there, would not be welcome. Aziraphale would probably answer anyway, because he was kind and he was trying to be better for Crowley, but Crowley was too humbled by that trust and too afraid of abusing it to dig deeper when he knew he’d risk hitting a raw nerve.

Aziraphale blinked himself back to present a moment later, casting a wary side-glance to Crowley to see if the blunder had been noticed. Crowley pondered for a second if lying would be the best strategy, this time, a white lie to make Aziraphale at ease, but he didn’t really want to. He was tired of covering up what he thought, what he felt. He smiled softly at him instead, and reached out to squeeze his hand.

Aziraphale’s answering smile was uncertain, but he squeezed Crowley’s hand back with a sure grip, before pulling away.

“Anyhow,” Aziraphale sighed, settling a bit more comfortably on the bench and lacing his hands on his belly, gaze lost in the distance, “we tried a few things, on each other, on students from outside of our social circle. We read books and talked to people who knew about it more than us. We were reckless, at first, but lucky enough to learn caution the easy way.” A shrug. “Truth to be told, we were a bunch of well-read cads who recited bits and pieces from _Justine_ and felt very progressive and exquisitely _avant-garde_ at caning each other and seeking freedom through humiliation, but I never really liked it. I never liked inflicting pain, and I never liked receiving it. But there were moments, in all this, moments where one of my friends would let go, give himself over, so utterly and beautifully, that it felt like reaching a perfect pitch. That’s how I knew. It’d never been about the pain or the humiliation for me. Control was the key.”

There was something haunted in Aziraphale’s face, now, like an old would, stinging when the weather changed. He rubbed his gloved palms over his thighs, and Crowley scooted a bit closer, pulling one of Aziraphale’s hands in his lap and cradling it gently between his own. Aziraphale spared him a pale smile before carrying on, but enough to let Crowley know that his touch was welcome, and appreciated.

“I tried talking to my friends about this. They laughed at me. They said that I was soft, too soft for the sexual revolution they were bringing about. I didn’t have the resolve to commit. But they tolerated me, tolerated my quirks. I tried to give my partners what they wanted, for a while. Then I found myself in the position of having to decide if I wanted to go on with my studies or leave, and I realised that I’d had enough of that. I’d had enough of Cambridge, of those entitled cads who thought they were a God-given gift to the world, of the academia and of my circle. I left and never looked back.”

A sigh, barely louder than the wind drifting through the trees. Crowley cradled Aziraphale’s gloved hand tighter, trying to work through all that information, to decide how he felt about it. He wasn’t sure. He felt mostly the weight of those long years he hadn’t known Aziraphale, hadn’t been aware of his existence, and felt a bit forlorn and a bit wistful, because even if Crowley wasn’t who he’d been at twenty, even if _Aziraphale_ probably wasn’t who he’d been at twenty, he couldn’t help thinking that they’d shared the same loneliness, if nothing else.

“I went to London, after that. I found a position as an archivist. It was before a field-specific master had become an imperative necessity even to sweep the floor.” There was a scoff in his voice, as Aziraphale carried on. “I’d had enough of the scene, enough to decide that it wasn’t really my thing, after all. My friends, we didn’t really do boyfriends. We were free from the yoke of conventions, reinventing the concept of human relationships, and we’d have sex with everyone who asked and was willing to get a bit of humiliation on the side as a perk. I’d come to realise that I wasn’t comfortable with that. I wanted something... more. Someone that would be mine and no one else’s. So I tried dating.” A rueful smile. “It went as well as you can imagine.”

Crowley brought Aziraphale’s hand to his mouth, slowly and purposely, and kissed the knuckles. It was strange, hearing something that could have sounded almost like him coming out of somebody else’s lips. Almost, but not quite.

Aziraphale took a deep, steadying breath, before carrying on.

“Most of my partners found my approach to sex off-putting, when not plain uncomfortable. I tried to control myself, to be what they wanted me to be, but it became too unsatisfying after a while even to bother anymore. I was twenty-seven when I decided to try the formal scene.”

Crowley frowned, uncertain about what that meant.

“Formal scene?” he repeated, interrupting Aziraphale for the first time since he’d started speaking.

Aziraphale threw him a side glance.

“Parties. Fetish clubs. Gatherings of various sorts.” A shrug. “I never really cared much for the... theatricality of it. I preferred small, informal gatherings, especially those without a dress code or specific behavioural requirements. I thought that if I couldn’t have a stable partner who shared my... interests, at least I’d scratch the itch, so to speak. What is it?”

Crowley blinked. He hadn’t realised that he’d made a face, but apparently he had. Or maybe Aziraphale was coming to know him so well that soon he’d start reading his thoughts straight from his brain, who knew.

“Nothing,” he blabbered, a bit rushed, “I just...”

“Yes?”

“I... I teased you. About clubs.”

Aziraphale stared at him for a long moment, uncomprehending, before a slow, sharp sort of smirk dawned on his soft face.

“Oh yes, I remember. While discussing our little ruse. You explained to me what a club was, if I recall.”

“Yes, well. I, I just...”

“It was a very concise, very clear explanation, my dear. It made for a greatly improved understanding of the issue.”

“There is no need to get snippy, now,” Crowley grumbled, but Aziraphale wasn’t being snippy, not really. He was very obviously trying not to snort quite inelegantly in his face, and Crowley didn’t much appreciate that either.

Crowley’s grousing was clearly enough to tip the scale, and Aziraphale started snickering in his fist, then openly laughing, as Crowley meditated on dropping his hand in revenge. But he didn’t really want to let it go, which meant that the one ending up unhappy with the act would be Crowley first and foremost, so there was really no point in going through all that, really.

“Yes, well,” Crowley grumbled, “forgive me for not guessing at first sight that Anathema’s librarian used to go to _fetish clubs_. My bad.”

“Never judge a book by his cover,” Aziraphale snickered. “Has no one ever told you that?”

“Frank N. Further, but it was a very long time ago,” Crowley snipped back, only to be met with a rather puzzled look. “Yes, of course, the librarian in waistcoat and stopwatch who went to fetish clubs never heard of _The Rocky Horror Picture Show_. How are you even real?”

“My sexual preferences have nothing to do with my appreciation for bebop and motion pictures, just so you know,” Aziraphale primly replied, but there was still the echo of a laugh lingering in his voice.

Crowley scoffed, refusing to grace that with an answer, and refusing to give up on Aziraphale’s hand either as he sprawled a bit more loosely on the bench and looked grumpily away.

“Do you want to know more?” Aziraphale asked, sobering up slowly. “Or is that enough?”

What a silly question. As though he would ever pass up the chance to know more about Aziraphale, especially since he couldn’t remember the man talking that much about himself before, let alone volunteering information.

“More,” Crowley grunted, then thought better about it. “If you’re alright with it.”

A low chuckle.

“Curious, darling?”

Crowley considered the question for a moment, while reflexively bringing Aziraphale’s hand to his lips.

“Yes,” he admitted eventually. “I want to understand you, too.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale sighed. “I see.”

Crowley pressed another kiss to the soft deerskin covering Aziraphale’s knuckles, and Aziraphale smiled ever so tenderly at him before carrying on with his tale.

“We were talking about my forays in the formal scene, as I recall,” Aziraphale mused, looking away with hazy eyes, lost in thoughts. “It didn’t go well, as you can imagine. I refused to dress up for the sake of convention, and I stuck out as a sore thumb almost everywhere I went. But I didn’t want to conform to other people expectations, for once. I wanted to be myself. It turned out that my brand of dominance wasn’t very sought after.”

A sigh. Crowley mulled over the concept of Aziraphale scouting fetish clubs in the short silence that followed, finding it quite difficult to come to terms with. He tried to picture him on a dark floor, primly dressed in his pressed trousers and waistcoat, drink in hand, charming the pants off the first twinky submissive who caught his fancy.

He wasn’t prepared for the visceral, rabid stab of jealousy he felt, at the idea that other men, other _submissives_, had got to hear Aziraphale’s honeyed voice praising them, telling them how _good_, how _precious_ they were. He felt the grip of it in his throat, his chest, his heart, angry and ravaging and incandescent, sinking into his belly like white-hot steel.

That was _his_. Aziraphale’s words and praises and approval were _Crowley’s_, and no one else’s. Everyone who had ever heard any of it had stolen something that belonged to him, and him alone.

He tried to keep still, but his body betrayed him somehow. Perhaps a tightening of his grasp, a hitch in his breathing. Whatever that was, Aziraphale’s blue eyes were once again focused on him, searching his face from behind the shield of Aziraphale’s hand.

“Is everything all right, dear?”

“Yes,” Crowley lied. He didn’t like the idea that those words that had meant so much to him were just a routine, something that Aziraphale would say to anyone. It was a sickening thought. But he wasn’t ready to talk about that, that senseless, useless jealousy for things long past. “Go on. Please.”

Aziraphale looked at him a moment longer, a frown marring his forehead, but he didn’t ask. Crowley breathed a bit easily as Aziraphale looked away, obviously deciding to let go. This time.

“I like to make my partners happy,” Aziraphale went on, voice slowly growing more and more detached as he carried on. “I want, I _need_ to give them what they require. And nothing I gave those men seemed to be enough. I could see how unhappy they were, how unsatisfied. My best efforts were not enough. So, I endeavoured to do better.” He took a breath, obviously trying to fortify himself for what was to come. There was a tension growing under his skin, a mounting wave of shame and guilt that pulled his mouth in an unhappy grimace. “There was this one night, at a party. The submissive I was with asked me to tie him to the cross and flog him. I’d never done that before, and I thought, well. I thought I could do it. There were other Doms there, they showed me how. They kept an eye on us. I managed to get seven blows in before having the worst drop of my life.”

There was such an unspeakable disgust for himself flickering in his face, at the memory, than all Crowley could do was to cradle his hand closer, trying to convey a measure of comfort through touch alone. He had no idea what a drop was, but he could make an educated guess, and it didn’t seem like a nice thing to experience at all. Especially with what came after.

“I’m still not sure what it was. The welts, I think. The noise. The way it felt, exerting that sort of strength onto another human being. The _sounds_ he made. It didn’t matter that he wanted it, that he liked it. It was... horrible. I dropped the flogger and fled. I needed to get out of there. I stumbled into the first bathroom I found and threw up everything I had in my stomach, until there was nothing left. Then I remembered. I’d left my sub shackled to the bloody cross.”

Crowley felt something break in his chest at the way Aziraphale’s breath left his lips, a small, shuddering sigh, so full of self-reproach that it took Crowley everything he had not to cross the distance and curl up around Aziraphale’s shivering frame until he’d chased that memory far away enough that it could not hurt him anymore.

“I came back to a dropping, almost hysterical sub, being taken care of by other Doms. I received quite a thorough dressing-down from about half a dozen of them. And they were right to do so,” Aziraphale said, at the glare full of indignation that Crowley shot at him at that unbelievable proof of cruelty. “I knew I was pushing my limits. I knew I wasn’t up to the task. I should’ve said something. Instead I put myself and my submissive in danger, because I couldn’t say no. That’s an incredibly irresponsible, reckless thing to do. That’s why boundaries are important, just like negotiations. It takes very little for a bit of play to turn unsafe, to become harmful. It was my fault, and I deserved whatever happened next.”

“What happened next?” Crowley asked, ever so softly, with the same voice he’d have used to talk to a spooked animal.

“I got a reputation for a dangerous, incompetent Dom, incapable of getting his submissives safely through a scene. No one invited me to parties anymore. I was not welcome to gatherings. And people whispered about me in the clubs.” Aziraphale sighed, cheeks blushing in abject shame. “Not that it mattered, anyway. That was the last time I played with a sub. I couldn’t face the idea of betraying someone else’s trust like that again. I _couldn’t_. I stopped going to clubs short after. I gave up on everything altogether. And then I met Robert.”

Crowley had thought he hated the tosser before, but now that he knew, he _knew_ how vulnerable and beaten Aziraphale had been when that wretched man came into his life, he decided that if he ever met the wanker, he’d punch him straight into Gabriel’s lap.

_Controlling_. _Overbearing_. _Suffocating_. To a man that had endured that sort of guilt for so long for a slip. A slip born from a genuine desire to _please_. Crowley wanted nothing more than to wring the twat’s neck.

“Robert was a nice man,” Aziraphale went on, too lost in his own thoughts for once to realise the turmoil going on in Crowley’s mind, “and we had several common interests. We got along. Robert was well-educated, interesting, with a good, orderly life. It was easy and steady and safe. But he wanted to date the ordinary, straight-laced librarian most people see at first glance, and most people usually dislike being disabused of their preconceptions.” A scoff, something self-deprecating and almost angry. “I tried to be what he wanted, to be happy with dinner and some tepid sex once or twice per week, to talk about books and hear him recite Goethe in German for my amusement, to keep myself close enough to be present, if not involved, when we were intimate, but not enough to be suffocating, to demand more than what he was willing to give. Eventually, the strain became impossible to sustain, and when he finally saw the cracks, he realised that he didn’t really like the person he was seeing, after all, and left.”

Aziraphale’s eyes were wide and haunted as he looked up, and Crowley realised that he hadn’t meant to say that much, and it was hitting him just now how vulnerable he’d made himself, how easily that could be too much baggage for a relationship as young as theirs to bear. He looked terrified. But he barrelled on, and Crowley mused, clear and unflinching and for the first time in his life unafraid, that he could love this man, this brave, stubborn, fretful, tender, wonderful man, and felt something close to clarity, close to comfort, surge in his chest at the thought.

“And so you have it,” Aziraphale said, voice cracking a little, blood oozing out of old, festering wounds. “Too much for some and too little for others, too educated for my job and not enough for my family, incapable of fitting anywhere.”

Crowley felt it deep, speaking with his voice, words he’d always thought and never said out loud, spiking up like overlying layers of scream, reaching a pitch of noise loud enough to shatter his eardrums in an explosion of atrocious pain. He was holding Aziraphale before he could even formulate the right thoughts to order his sluggish body to close the distance, Aziraphale’s hand cradled against Crowley’s chest, Crowley’s arm around his shoulders. He was close enough to feel the shivers racking Aziraphale’s frame, and held him tighter, and tighter, until the distance didn’t hurt anymore.

“You fit in here,” Crowley whispered, sinking his fingers in Aziraphale’s cotton-tuft hair and pressing their foreheads together. “With me.”

He felt Aziraphale stiffen for a moment that seemed everlasting, pained and brittle and sharp as a blade, until Aziraphale finally relaxed in his grip and curled an arm around Crowley’s waist.

They stayed there for a long time, until Crowley’s muscles started to cramp, until Aziraphale’s shivers had subsided. Then Aziraphale stirred, and Crowley slowly, reluctantly let him go.

There was something haunted, something broken, something terribly fragile and something tentatively hopeful in his blue eyes, as Aziraphale looked up.

“Let’s go home, darling,” he said.

Crowley helped him up and led the way.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost missed my weekly deadline this time, my muse has been a bit bitchy lately. But you all have been so wonderful that I just couldn’t let you down <3  
The usual, grateful shout-out to [uponwhatgrounds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uponwhatgrounds/pseuds/uponwhatgrounds), who drew a gorgeous [Anathema](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24000142/chapters/58286968) for me. Thank you so, so much again for being so wonderful to me.

They were quiet, as they made their way back to Aziraphale’s flat. The silence bristling between them wasn’t exactly uneasy, but it was thick, thoughtful, and Crowley was unwilling to break it. They had spoken of enough heavy things for the time being to charge the brittle moment with yet more jagged intimacy, but they couldn’t just set them aside and fill the sticky hush with idle talk. Crowley wasn’t sure where they would go from there, but he knew that he needed to feel Aziraphale close, to talk with his fingertips where his lips were woefully inadequate. He needed to make Aziraphale _feel_ the connection between them, to reach for him in a way that couldn’t be misunderstood. He wanted to hold him tight enough to crush that old, festering sorrow to dust, to swallow that unbearable loneliness whole. He wanted Aziraphale to be _happy_ with such a ravaging strength that he could barely keep himself inside his own skin, Aziraphale’s words echoing in his mind like a mournful melody.

It made all sense, now. How insistent Aziraphale had been from the very beginning about Crowley taking the time to think before accepting anything, from playing the doting boyfriend for Aziraphale’s arsehole family to taking up somewhat more adventurous practices in bed. How horrified Aziraphale had been at the prospect of taking advantage of an intoxicated Crowley, even in jest. How careful he was, all the time, as though secretly convinced that he could break Crowley irreparably if he only looked at him a fraction too hard. Crowley had perceived that deeply-buried concern as the proof that Aziraphale saw him as a pitiful, fragile thing, to be coddled, to be protected, small and inferior, when Aziraphale had been terrified of hurting him out of his own traumatic past experiences, out of care. And Crowley’s own insecurities had brought him to reject that care, even as he secretly revelled in it. Which was probably what had prompted Aziraphale to give it to him in the first place.

It was with a stab of guilt that Crowley realised to be no better than all those people who had hurt Aziraphale before, all those faceless strangers who had made him feel out of place, disconnected, alone and forsaken. He’d refused the tenderness, the concern, the affection that Aziraphale gave so freely, blind and uncomprehending, and yet Aziraphale hadn’t stopped trying, struggling to find the right measure of care between what Crowley desperately craved and what he was actually ready to accept. Someone willing to put that much of an effort in understanding and satisfying Crowley’s jumbled needs was more than he’d ever dreamt he could get, a concept he could barely grasp.

If he’d thought he’d been obsessed with Aziraphale before, incapable of shrugging off the weight of that silly crush, he knew that it would pale in comparison with what was to come the moment all of that truly sank in. And the thought of being deprived of all that light, of that easy affection, when everything would inevitably crash and burn, was beyond terrifying.

But he didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t want to think about anything that wasn’t holding that man close, and being swallowed by that impossible tenderness until nothing else remained. He wanted to forget that his world didn’t start and didn’t end with Aziraphale, that there was something else lurking beyond the high fences the man crafted around him ever so carefully when they were together.

Understanding struck with a spark, as Crowley realised that _that_ was the key, _his_ key, just like absolute control was Aziraphale’s. The way Aziraphale handled him in bed focused Crowley in a way that nothing and nobody else had ever been able to, silencing his mind like turning off a switch.

Surrender was the key for both of them, it seemed. And Crowley marvelled at how long it’d taken him to realise something so obvious and so intimate about himself, when it had been so clear to Aziraphale from the start. But then again, he couldn’t even imagine trusting anyone that wasn’t Aziraphale that way, so perhaps it was all the same, really, that he hadn’t known until the time was right.

Aziraphale’s bruised heart, however, came first. The man had given him so much that Crowley could only hope to pay back a fraction of that care, of that tenderness, but he’d do his very best.

The mood was still a bit frayed as they stepped back into Aziraphale’s flat, fragile and brittle. But the familiar space was soothing in a way that London’s busy streets weren’t, and Crowley caught Aziraphale’s tense body in his arms, pressing Aziraphale’s back tight against his chest and sinking his nose in those cotton-tuft curls.

Aziraphale resisted the pull for a moment, but Crowley waited for the instinctive first reaction to abate and kept holding him close as Aziraphale slowly relaxed in his grip. Eventually he let go completely, sinking in the warmth of Crowley’s body as he pressed his palm against Crowley’s hands, laced over his belly.

“Everything alright over there, angel?” Crowley murmured in his ear, pressing gentle kisses against his hair.

Aziraphale thought about his answer for a beat, stroking his gloved thumb across Crowley’s knuckles.

“It will be.”

Crowley hummed against Aziraphale’s skin, nuzzling the tender spot behind his ear. His sunglasses caught on a blond curl, so Crowley pulled them off and tossed them uncaringly into his open bag, still lurking beside the door.

“Anything I can do to help?” he murmured, trying to sound as soothing as Aziraphale could be, warm and tender like a kiss.

Aziraphale hesitated again, a bit longer this time. Then he squeezed Crowley’s hand, like a warning, or perhaps to fortify himself.

“Yes. I would... I would very much like for you to take me, if you don’t mind.”

It took Crowley a moment to parse through the meaning of those words, and then he was sighing a bit choppily against Aziraphale’s nape, his body buzzing with such a sudden hunger he felt it vibrate in his very bones.

“You want me to fuck you,” he breathed, voice down almost to a growl as he rubbed his face against Aziraphale’s soft blond hair. The scent of his skin was intoxicating so up close, even through the thick layers of clothes.

“Not the words I’d have used, but yes, accurate enough,” Aziraphale primly bit back, dragging a breathless laugh out of Crowley’s chest. Crowley couldn’t really take a peek at his face from where he stood, but he could picture Aziraphale wrinkling his nose so vividly in his mind it was almost like seeing it for himself.

Crowley chuckled against Aziraphale’s nape, pressing soft kisses against his neck as he grabbed his hand ever so gently and peeled off the soft deerskin glove.

“Can I eat you out first?” he purred, sticking the glove in the pocket of Aziraphale’s coat before going for the other hand.

He felt the wave of Aziraphale’s sharp intake of breath into his own chest, resonating against his skin.

“If that’s something you’d like,” Aziraphale carefully replied, as his other glove followed the first into his pocket and Crowley started to unbutton his coat.

“Oh, yes, it is,” Crowley murmured, pulling Aziraphale’s thick tartan scarf free. “I’ve thought about it often enough. Almost as often as I’ve thought about blowing you.”

“You could do better things with your time than linger on such idle fantasies,” Aziraphale chided him, but his voice was just a smidge too shaky to deliver the line convincingly. Crowley shuddered anyway at the stern tone, realising with a vague spike of surprise that he liked that, he liked it when Aziraphale was forceful, firm, as much as he liked the drowning affection and the glimmering praise.

“I don’t know,” Crowley rumbled back, peppering the curve of Aziraphale’s skull with kisses, as he took a step back to peel the woollen coat off those broad shoulders. “I consider the time I used picturing myself kneeling naked behind your rump as I ate you out quite well spent.”

There was simmering heat blazing behind Aziraphale’s blue eyes as he whipped around, taking in Crowley’s shape with blatant hunger.

“You’re still pushing,” he growled, then the tension seemed to fizzle out, as Aziraphale looked away with a grimace on his face. “After everything I told you.”

Crowley felt like he’d been doused in freezing water. He took a step back, holding Aziraphale’s coat in front of him like a shield as his forehead scrunched up in a frown.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean...” he stuttered, horror piling up in his belly at the thought of Aziraphale being pushed to do something he didn’t want, to the memory of his broken voice over his failed scene. “If it’s something you’re not comfortable with...”

Aziraphale scoffed at that, a sound that would’ve sounded rather rude if it hadn’t been quite obviously aimed at himself.

“I _want_ that, you maddening, silly man,” he grumbled, something a bit helpless shimmering in his eyes as he pulled his loose scarf off his neck. “But after everything I told you, I can’t... I can’t ask you to trust me. I hadn’t had a submissive for so long that I’d almost forgotten the reason I stopped playing, and now that I’ve finally remembered, it would be... it would be unjust to ask that of you, when I failed all the ones who have come before.”

There was a tension bristling in the air now, and Crowley wasn’t sure where it came from, or how to defuse it. He wanted to go back to the easy pushes and pulls of their bodies, to something that he could handle and understand, but he had an inkling that those were things that left alone would only fester, and he wanted to be better for Aziraphale. Even if that meant more heavy, awkward talk.

“You haven’t failed _me_,” Crowley answered, in a quiet, steely voice.

Aziraphale blinked at him, eyes growing tender for a moment, before taking a step back.

“Haven’t I? I played with you without telling you, without _asking_ you, and you dropped. I let you drift into subspace without a word of explanation, even if you were uncomfortable with it, because it was just too lovely to stop, to have something like that again, finally, after all those years. And I _chose_ to keep my peace, because it was easier, because I was terrified of pushing you away, and because if I started telling you about the scene, I was aware that I would have to explain to you how I came to know so much about it, sooner or later. And a coward and a selfish man I may be, but I’m not going to sink so low as to lie to my partner about my past.” Aziraphale’s eyes were blazing as he searched Crowley’s face, a pained, unhappy grimace tugging down his lips. “I knew that if we were to enter into a proper arrangement I would have to tell you about my failures as a Dominant, and how could I ask you to trust me, after that?”

The words were out of his mouth before Crowley could even _think_ about stringing them together in a sentence, but he knew they were true as soon as he spoke them.

“I trust you.”

“But...”

“No. I trust you.” He stepped forward, pressing a kiss to Aziraphale’s forehead as he tried to convey through touch what he couldn’t with words. “I’m not saying that I don’t have questions. But I trust you. You are a kind man, Aziraphale. I’ve met few enough of them to know. You’d never hurt anyone for the sake of it.”

_You’d never hurt me._

The words were lodged in his throat, and Crowley saw to it that they’d stay there. There were things he wasn’t ready to say. But it was startling to realise that he meant it, that even after Aziraphale’s unsettling recount of past experiences he wasn’t worried in the slightest. He was obviously much more protective of his heart than his body, and while that was a rather alarming epiphany to have, there was also a little sadness to that thought.

Aziraphale’s eyes were shining a little as he stroked Crowley’s cheek, and he lined up for a soft, lingering kiss.

“My sweet, precious darling,” he whispered, kissing Crowley again, and again, and again, until Crowley was half-drunk with it. “Do you want to talk now? Or later?”

What a daft question.

“Later,” Crowley growled against his lips, pulling back just enough to hang Aziraphale’s coat and get rid of his own before grabbing Aziraphale’s hips and purposely grinding their hardening cocks together. “We have more pressing matters to take care of right now.”

Aziraphale snorted at his quip, but parted his lips obligingly when Crowley kissed him deep. It was a filthy thing, tongues rubbing together just like their cocks through the overlapping layers of their clothes. Crowley hummed in the kiss as Aziraphale’s clever fingers undid his tie and unbuttoned his sleek jacket, since he was too busy fisting Aziraphale’s soft sweater vest and grinding their hips together to do that himself. Eventually Aziraphale’s scarf and Crowley’s jacket and shirt found a place on the poor overcrowded hanger, while Crowley dropped his tie on top of his sunglasses and kicked off his boots.

There was naked hunger in Aziraphale’s eyes as he took Crowley’s shape in, and Crowley felt the pressure of that gaze like a touch, brushing a trail down his chest to the buttons of the jeans that he was hastily undoing. And then he was pulling everything down, kicking off the last remains of his clothes and standing naked in Aziraphale’s cool flat.

He gasped at the feeling of Aziraphale’s palm pressed steadily over his heart, as he slipped his other hand between Crowley’s thighs, cupping his balls and cradling his achingly hard cock.

“My beautiful Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed, deep and shuddering. He trailed the hand pressed against Crowley’s chest to his nape, holding him fast, and curled the other around the girth of Crowley’s cock, giving a few experimental tugs. A shudder ran down Crowley’s spike at the pointed touch, and he watched with stuttering breaths his loose foreskin bunch up a little over Aziraphale’s thumb, before Aziraphale slid his fist all the way down.

“Angel,” Crowley sighed, sinking his fingers in Aziraphale’s curls and pressing their lips together in a shallow, lingering kiss. Aziraphale tightened the grip on Crowley’s nape and squeezed the head of his cock, rubbing his thumb into the slit.

“So wet already,” Aziraphale purred, trailing kisses along Crowley’s jaw, his neck, his ear. “Such an eager boy.”

Crowley shuddered at the words, at the pointed, sticky condescendence of Aziraphale’s husky voice. He snapped his hips in Aziraphale’s grasp, thrusting his aching cock in that tight fist, and felt a spike of exquisite pleasure tingle across his skin.

“Aziraphale,” he groaned, in a raspy, shuddering voice. “You wanted me to fuck you, didn’t you?”

Aziraphale hummed under his breath, teeth scraping against the ridge of Crowley’s jaw.

“Perhaps we should move on to the bedroom, then,” he whispered, grasp tightening of a fraction around Crowley’s erection. For a heady, shuddering moment, Crowley pictured himself being literally led around by his prick, before Aziraphale loosened his grip and let him go, taking a step back.

Crowley almost stumbled at the sudden lack of pressure, mourning the loss of the firm hand cupping his nape almost as much as the steady grip around his cock. He felt a bit hazy, skin prickling as though his hunger was seeping through his blood vessels to the surface of his shuddering flesh. He stared at Aziraphale with eyes wide open, and Aziraphale smiled at him in turn, looking unfairly unruffled in his soft sweater vest and meticulously ironed shirt. Only his tented trousers belied how affected he truly was, showcasing the hard line of his straining cock.

Crowley was on him with a growl. He curled his grasping hands around Aziraphale’s hips and pushed him backwards, reverting every ounce of attention that he could spare to the cluttered floor. Even in his altered state, so painfully turned on he could feel the pull of it like a hook in his flesh, he was aware enough of his surroundings to realise that Aziraphale tripping on a stray book and breaking his neck on a piece of furniture wasn’t so far-off a possibility, if he didn’t pay attention. Aziraphale chuckled in his grip, and stroked his face lovingly, which didn’t help Crowley in the slightest in his quest to get Aziraphale through the living room. He gave up on it entirely by the time they reached Aziraphale’s cluttered desk.

“Turn around, angel,” Crowley grunted, a bit surprised against his will when Aziraphale complied without a word. He pressed a hand between Aziraphale’s shoulder blades as the man bowed down just enough to grip the edges of his desk, and then traced a line along his spine, slow and through, feeling the layers of Aziraphale’s clothes bunch up under his palm, until he got to the hard line of his belt.

Aziraphale sighed deeply, a shuddering sound, as Crowley traced with both hands the loop of his belt under the sweater vest until they met on the front. Crowley breathed in the sweet scent of Aziraphale’s hair as he pressed his naked body against that clothed back, peppering the bowed nape with soft, lingering kisses as he pulled Aziraphale’s sweater out of the way and slowly unbuckled his belt.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed, as though he was tasting the name on his tongue. Crowley nipped the curve of his neck with sharp teeth and unbuttoned his trousers, hooking his fingers into the tight line of Aziraphale’s pants before pulling them both down his thighs. Aziraphale gasped when Crowley curled a hand around his cock, and Crowley relished the weight, the texture of it, the way it filled his fist. He pulled at it, feeling the slide of foreskin under his palm, thumbing the sensitive underside of the flared head.

“Would you rather come on my tongue or my cock, angel?” he whispered in Aziraphale’s ear, his slow, pointed pulls yanking a shuddering groan out of Aziraphale’s throat.

“Tongue,” Aziraphale hissed back, which surprised Crowley a little. If he’d been less turned on he’d have smelt the intention behind it perhaps, but as it was he thought nothing of it, aside from the lovely picture of Aziraphale coming with Crowley’s tongue in his arse. He ground his hard cock in the sweet hollow between Aziraphale’s cheeks and nipped once more at the shadowy strip of skin behind Aziraphale’s ear, before slowly sinking down onto his knees.

He’d never seen Aziraphale’s arse so up close before, and spent a good moment admiring the way that soft flesh bunched up in his fists, before spreading the cheeks and taking a peek at the furled hole nestled in between. It looked small and impossibly tight, crowned by a sparse handful of white hairs. Crowley blew gently on it, and watched it flutter at the sensation, just as Aziraphale keened above him.

“_Crowley_,” Aziraphale hissed, and with a spark of startled amusement Crowley realised that however fond Aziraphale was of teasing him and making him wait, he was much less partial to delayed pleasure when _he_ was the one experiencing it. Crowley wasn’t particularly surprised to feel the clumsy touch of Aziraphale’s hand on his head, or the tight grasp of Aziraphale’s fingers as they sank into his short hair.

“My, my, angel,” he chuckled against Aziraphale’s hole, every word a drag of lips against that shuddering, clenching flesh. “You’re much less patient than you like people to believe.”

“Well, _people_ are not privy to the feeling of being held open while you kneel behind them, so they can keep their opinions to themselves,” Aziraphale growled, actually _growled_, voice low and gravelly. “Now get on with it.”

“Oh, where has all that sweet talk gone,” Crowley purred, but he was already pressing his face between Aziraphale’s cheeks, kissing his hole. Aziraphale’s groan was all the answer he got, and Crowley pressed the flat of his tongue against the fluttering skin, teasing Aziraphale’s clenching opening before catching the rim between his lips and sucking gently on it.

It had been so, so long. Crowley couldn’t rightly remember the last time he’d trusted someone enough to use his mouth on them like that, even if he wanted to. Perhaps in his twenties, when he was still trying out things and had patience to spare for something more challenging than a quick blow job in the backroom of a club. But he’d loved it, that he could remember well enough. He’d loved the intimacy of it, the feeling of touching someone so deeply, of giving them such an electric, quivering pleasure. He could feel every groan and keen tumbling out of Aziraphale’s mouth roll down his spine, like a shiver, making his straining cock twitch under the onslaught.

Crowley went on teasing him for a while, licking and sucking at his rim until he felt Aziraphale relax under his touch, his hole loosening at the gentle pressure of Crowley’s tongue. He wondered vaguely how long it’d been since Aziraphale had anything inside of him, and the idea of having been so long that Crowley’s cock would push past the resistance of unused muscles roiled in his blood like a fiery tide.

He sank his hands in Aziraphale’s fleshy thighs and pressed his teeth against sensitive skin, revelling in the shocked keens pouring out of Aziraphale’s mouth. The fingers in his hair tightened their grip, and Crowley felt his thoughts scatter a little at the ache of his scalp being pulled. Aziraphale was keeping a steady grasp on his head, holding Crowley exactly where he wanted him, and Crowley felt himself drift at the feeling of kneeling naked at Aziraphale’s feet.

He opened weary eyes as he tongued lazily at Aziraphale’s hole, and saw the line of his sweater, the expanse of his back. Aziraphale was wearing all his layers, from the buttoned cufflinks to his trousers, lowered barely enough to allow Crowley to eat him out, and Crowley felt the hard blow of such stark contrast in his aching cock, as he always did.

He closed his eyes and gently pushed his tongue past the rim, licking Aziraphale inside. He felt the vibration of Aziraphale’s loud groan under his skin, and shuddered at the pull on his hair as he kept opening Aziraphale up with his tongue. He tasted dark and lovely there, not much different from his cock, the scent of his skin and sweat stronger and heady. Crowley pushed his tongue inside, deeper and deeper, until he couldn’t reach any farther and brought a finger to Aziraphale’s hole to finish the job. Aziraphale’s keens were deafening, when Crowley pushed his index inside, alongside his tongue.

“Oh, Crowley, my lovely Crowley,” Aziraphale groaned, a shudder in his voice, as he pulled at Crowley’s hair and pushed against the finger and tongue buried deep into his hole. “What a clever boy you are. Will you touch me?”

His meaning filtered into Crowley’s addled brain in stages, and eventually Crowley switched the hand fingering Aziraphale’s arse so that he could bring his right to Aziraphale’s cock, loosely gripping his palm around the leaking shaft, flagging a bit at the penetration. Aziraphale groaned at the feeling, hips snapping to fuck his cock into Crowley’s fist, before pushing down hard on the pressure into his arse.

“Like that, darling,” he gasped, shuddering deeply as Crowley hooked his finger into the very edge of his hole to make the stretched line of his rim pop out and scraped his teeth against the fluttering skin. “Oh, my sweet, beautiful Crowley. You’re so good, so lovely to me. It’s time for another finger, now. Make me come, sweetheart.”

The instruction, the _order_, sank through Crowley’s skin like electricity. He redoubled his efforts, screwing another finger into Aziraphale’s stretched hole, fighting the resistance of the quivering muscles. He sucked at the stretched rim, pulling at Aziraphale’s cock at the best of his abilities, given the awkward angle. Luckily enough Aziraphale wasn’t particularly long, and Crowley could reach the flared head, squeezing it in his palm and spreading precome everywhere as he twisted his wrist and then fisted the stiffening shaft down to the wiry curls at his groin.

Crowley was spreading his fingers just enough to push his tongue in between, pumping on Aziraphale’s straining cock for all that was worth, when he felt Aziraphale’s muscles lock under him. Crowley barely managed to wrap his hand around the swollen cockhead before Aziraphale filled his hand with sticky come, tightening the grip on Crowley’s hair as he shuddered and keened through his climax. Crowley held him through it, licking at his fluttering hole until Aziraphale’s grip on his hair started to pull him back instead of squashing him against his arse.

“That’s enough, darling,” Aziraphale gasped, twitching and spent and obviously oversensitive. Crowley complied, pulling back from Aziraphale’s delectable arse and looking up. Aziraphale was staring at him from over his shoulder, heavy lids half-covering hazy eyes, and Crowley pressed back against the hand on his head as Aziraphale loosened his grip and petted his hair gently.

“My lovely boy,” Aziraphale sighed, breath slowly normalising. Then he let go of Crowley entirely, pulling up his pants and trousers and buttoning them loosely up, before shuffling clumsily around. Crowley sat on his hunches and merely looked up at him, content to kneel there, a deep silence muffling his thoughts.

Then Aziraphale seemed to take him in, _really_ take him in, kneeling naked at his feet, hard and leaking on his wooden floor, Aziraphale’s come speckling his hand. He took a hitching breath and cupped Crowley’s cheek in his palm, watching with undisguised awe as Crowley leant into the touch and lowered his lids.

“Give me your hand, sweetheart,” Aziraphale whispered, and when Crowley slowly lifted his dirty hand, Aziraphale cradled in his own and cleaned it tenderly. Then he tossed the crumpled tissue in the bin and gently pulled Crowley up to his feet.

The change of stance felt a bit disorienting, and Crowley allowed Aziraphale to steady him as he pondered vaguely that Aziraphale had been right, the hardwood was indeed unforgiving on the knees. He stretched his joints to ease the strain, and then Aziraphale was cupping his hard cook. The slow pulls at his aching flesh gave him some relief, and Crowley shuddered into the touch, as he placed his hands on Aziraphale’s arms for balance.

“My wonderful boy, neglecting yourself to see to my pleasure,” Aziraphale whispered, kissing him sweetly. “You deserve a reward. Come, now.”

Crowley could only follow him dumbly to the bedroom, a bit too hazy and way too focused on his hard prick bobbing at every step between his thighs to pay much attention to anything that went beyond putting one foot in front of the other. He sat down obediently on the edge of the unmade bed when Aziraphale gently pushed him onto it, lazily stroking his own cock as he watched Aziraphale get rid of his clothes. Aziraphale was quick, methodical about it, and once his layers were all hanging rather untidily the his armchair, he joined Crowley amidst the messy blankets.

“Will you help me a little, darling?” Aziraphale asked, retrieving the lube and a condom from the night table and straddling Crowley’s lap. “It won’t take much. You’ve been very thorough.”

Crowley watched in a dream-like state as Aziraphale took his hand and poured some lube onto his fingers, before bringing it back to his own arse. It took Crowley a moment to divine Aziraphale’s meaning, but his body was much quicker than his dazed brain, and soon he was wriggling his fingers between Aziraphale’s soft cheeks and spreading lube across his fluttering hole.

“Like that, darling, yes,” Aziraphale sighed, letting go of Crowley’s hand and wrapping his arms around Crowley’s neck. “Oh, I do love your hands. They are so very clever.”

Crowley looped an arm around Aziraphale’s waist and pulled him close, sinking his face into the sweet slope of Aziraphale’s neck and breathing him deep. He pressed a string of open-mouthed kisses to Aziraphale’s soft skin as he screwed two fingers inside, and Aziraphale hummed, squirming a bit at the pressure.

“Alright?” Crowley grumbled, fingering him slowly, as deeply as the angle allowed. He’d never got to touch Aziraphale like that, and he was so lovely inside, warm and tight and _alive_. The idea of pushing his cock into that delightful heat was spreading into his blood slowly, like a fever, and Crowley bit down the tender flesh of Aziraphale’s neck as he spread his fingers on the way out.

Aziraphale hummed, arching his back and shuddering.

“A bit oversensitive, but this is _exquisite_,” he sighed, bearing down on Crowley’s fingers. “You are so good to me, my darling.”

Crowley shivered at the praise, and fingered him deep, deeper than he’d managed with his tongue in the way, searching for Aziraphale’s prostate. He knew he’d found it when he felt the man in his arms stiffen abruptly, as though he’d bit on a live wire.

“Too much, sweetheart, too much,” Aziraphale gasped, and Crowley immediately eased up, keeping him spread open but avoiding that sweet spot. Aziraphale panted against his cheek for a moment, before shuddering his way down.

“How long, angel?” Crowley murmured, realising as he asked that he _wanted_ to know, for some perverse reason. Maybe because he’d just discovered jealousy and he wanted to poke at it like a child with a land-bounded dragonfly. He’d been jealous of other men’s attentions before, but never of someone in particular. He wasn’t too sure he liked it.

“How long what?” Aziraphale sighed, gently rolling his hips to fuck himself deeper on Crowley’s fingers. “A bit more would be lovely now, darling.”

Crowley obligingly added a third finger to the slow thrusts, delighting in the feeling of Aziraphale’s rim stretched tight around his flesh. Aziraphale seemed to enjoy the experience too, since he mumbled at the intrusion, arching his back and gripping tight the short hair on Crowley’s nape.

“How long since you had anything inside of you?”

“Hmm. Well, darling, that depends.” A deep sigh, as Aziraphale stroked a hand over Crowley’s shoulder, obviously appreciating the shape of it. “Are you talking about my fingers, a toy, or somebody else’s cock?”

Crowley shuddered, prick twitching helplessly at the sound of that sort of stuff coming out of Aziraphale’s prim mouth in his clean Oxbridge accent. Aziraphale used dirty words so sparingly that it brushed something deep in Crowley’s guts to hear them tumbling out of his lips.

“All of it.”

“Hmm.” Aziraphale pulled back a little, just enough to stroke a hand down Crowley’s chest, from his bony sternum to his aching cock. “A few weeks for my fingers. A bit longer for a toy. And a little over a year for someone else.”

There was a faint trace of defensiveness to that statement, and Crowley kissed it off Aziraphale’s soft mouth. He thought about saying something, but there was very little he could say that wouldn’t betray his obvious, petty jealousy.

“I’ll be gentle with you, then,” Crowley quipped eventually, taking refuge in a bit of teasing. He got a hand surely wrapped around his cock for his trouble, and a hard, tortuously slow pull.

“I do not appreciate your cheek, darling,” Aziraphale purred, but there was some of that usual, wicked quality to his voice now, instead of brittle wariness. “And I much prefer lovemaking with some vigour, if it’s all the same to you.”

Crowley faltered in his task as that word, _lovemaking_, trailed through his shuddering mind like a comet.

He pushed it firmly aside. It was not the time to think about that. Not yet. It was just a word.

“What happened to all that gentleness of yours?” he quipped instead, licking a stripe along Aziraphale’s neck as he fingered him with a quickened, almost punishing pace. Aziraphale gasped at the feeling, baring his neck for a string of bruising kisses.

“That’s only for you, my dear boy,” he sighed, reaching down to fondle Crowley’s sack. “You are my precious, delicate darling. I must handle you with care.”

Crowley would’ve bristled at that, if it hadn’t been for the heavy, almost liquid wave of violent arousal swirling in his veins at those words. He shuddered, hiding his face against Aziraphale’s throat, and felt all his unease melt away as Aziraphale held him close with a jagged possessiveness while he pulled at his leaking cock.

“My sweet Crowley,” he crooned. “Will you be good for me? Will you push me down and have your wicked way with me?”

Crowley muffled something between a chuckle and a groan against Aziraphale’s neck, before slipping his fingers free from that lovely body. Aziraphale seemed to agree wholeheartedly with the idea, since he reached for a condom and opened it up quickly, before sliding it over Crowley’s hard cock.

“I’m not sure how long I’m going to last,” Crowley warned him, as Aziraphale slathered a generous amount of lube on his latex-covered cock. Then he lifted himself up, holding Crowley’s cock upright between his straining thighs, and lowered himself slowly onto it.

“Well then,” he gasped, as Crowley’s flared cockhead finally breached him, “we’d better make the best of it.”

Crowley whined, breathless and shuddering, as Aziraphale’s tight heat engulfed his cock. His hands scrambled at Aziraphale’s sides, looking for purchase, until Crowley simply made a grab for him, holding him tight against his chest as Aziraphale took him all the way in. He felt wonderful around his cock, his walls pressing down against aching, hard flesh, his rim stretched tight around the base of Crowley’s prick. Crowley pressed their cheeks together and gasped for air, as Aziraphale groaned and sank a hand in his hair, leading him to press his face against Aziraphale’s thick shoulder.

“How lovely you feel,” Aziraphale sighed, starting to move in his lap, milking pleasure out of Crowley in steady rolls of his hips. “It doesn’t matter how I touch you. I always enjoy every moment of it. And you are so wonderful, so easy to wind up.”

“Thanks,” Crowley grumbled, low and breathless, and not nearly as peeved as he should’ve been.

Aziraphale chuckled against his temple, lifting himself up a little and then snapping down, the tight heat of his body stroking Crowley’s cock in a perfect wave.

“It’s a compliment,” he purred, as Crowley whined and groaned against his throat. “Sensitive like a violin. The barest variation in pressure on the cords is enough to change the note.”

“Do you play, angel?” Crowley gasped, not sure about whatever was coming out of his mouth. He had his feet solidly planted onto the cool floor and was snapping his hips up into Aziraphale’s heat, chasing pleasure in overlapping sparks, a steady pressure mounting into his guts.

“My family owns a mansion in the country, what do you think?” Aziraphale chuckled, way too put together for how lost Crowley was getting into the grip of his body. “Mother put a violin in my hands the day I stopped crawling around on all fours.”

“You’re _not_ talking about your mother while I have my cock in you,” Crowley groaned, bucking up his hips in a deep, hard push that jostled Aziraphale a little in his arms.

Aziraphale, who having just come had a much better grasp on the situation than Crowley (the bastard!), laughed openly at his indignant protest and pulled at his hair, as he bore down onto Crowley’s cock.

“You asked,” he glibly bit back, running an appreciative hand down Crowley’s chest. “Perhaps you should put your back into it, if you want my full attention.”

Crowley growled against his throat, before urging him off his cock and down onto the bed. Aziraphale looked like a picture of absolutely debauchery like that, lying on his back with a string of lovebites blooming on the fair skin of his neck and his mostly soft prick resting idly on one of those fleshy thighs.

“That’s it,” Crowley hissed, kneeling between Aziraphale’s legs and spreading some fresh lube onto his cock, “I’ll show you what it means to be thoroughly shagged.”

“I think I did a pretty decent job myself up to now,” Aziraphale quipped back, not undeterred in the slightest, but rather interested in the sight of Crowley taking hold of his own cock and slowly pushing it back into Aziraphale’s giving body. Crowley revelled in the soft sight escaping Aziraphale’s lips at the feeling of being filled to the brim, and used the much better traction he had in this new position to pound Aziraphale into the mattress at the best of his abilities.

“_Much_ better, darling,” the bastard still had the nerve to purr, as Crowley sank a hand in Aziraphale’s cotton-tuft hair and put every ounce of strength and resistance he had into shagging him as thoroughly as humanly possible. Aziraphale gasped at the relentless thrusts, grabbing Crowley’s hair in his fist as he stroked a heavy hand down Crowley’s back.

“Is that enough for you, angel?” Crowley gasped, pleasure pooling into his belly in a shuddering heap, but determined on holding on as long as he could. He snapped his hips forward, over and over, as Aziraphale used the grip on his hair to smash their mouths together in a deep, messy kiss.

“You’re just as lovely as I thought you would be, my sweet boy,” Aziraphale purred against his lips. “Do you enjoy pleasing me, dearest?”

The words shot through Crowley’s pleasure-addled brain like a bullet, and he keened, hips bucking wildly as he clamped a hand around the base of his cock to stop himself from coming right then and there. He shuddered through it, but he managed to push down his climax. He was shaking like a leaf as he thrust back into Aziraphale’s tight heat, nerves alight, skin tingling, sweat beading down his spine and along his hairline. He felt it drop into his eyes, onto Aziraphale’s glowing skin.

“My wonderful boy,” Aziraphale crooned. “Look at you, trying so hard. You want to be good for me so desperately, don’t you?”

“Angel, stop, I can’t...” Crowley gasped, but Aziraphale kissed the rest of that sentence from his lips.

“Hush, now. You’re so lovely, so perfect. So good for me.” Another kiss, sweet, lingering, for all the desperate, stuttering strength Crowley was using to pound into him over and over. But there was something sharp into it, like a wicked aftertaste. “Are you having fun, sweetheart? How are you feeling?”

Crowley barely stuttered in his thrusts, brain trying to make sense out of that silly question. Then he felt Aziraphale’s hand stroke his side and reach the cleft of his arse, wriggling a probing finger between his cheeks.

“A bit empty, perhaps?” Aziraphale purred, low and sharp, as Crowley’s hips snapped forward in a string of stuttering, shallow thrusts.

“I’m ssssorry, I-nnnnh,” Crowley rasped, hiding his face in Aziraphale’s neck. He felt the firm grip of Aziraphale’s hand around his nape, and the subtle pressure of a stocky finger against his fluttering hole.

“Nothing to be sorry about, my dear boy,” Aziraphale crooned, just as he breached Crowley’s dry hole and fingered him shallowly. “Perhaps we could get something in you, next time. Have you all nice and taken care of.”

Crowley couldn’t really hope to last, after that. His hips were snapping in a string of stuttering thrusts before he could even _think_ about doing something about it, and then his balls were drawing up, pleasure bolting down his spine as he came and came and came inside Aziraphale’s lovely body. He kept on pounding into him until he was dry and oversensitive, then pulled out and collapsed on his chest. He barely felt Aziraphale’s finger slipping out of his arse, or his arms gently looping around his thin waist and holding him close.

“That was wonderful, darling,” Aziraphale sighed, stroking Crowley’s hair rather dreamily as Crowley shuddered and panted against his chest. “Absolutely perfect.”

“Good,” Crowley barely managed to gasp, as he came shivering down his high. Aziraphale hummed against the crown of Crowley’s hair and kissed it gently, something tender and subtly possessive in his grip.

It felt like a hundred years had passed, by the time Crowley finally made an attempt at pulling away from Aziraphale’s wondrous heat. Aziraphale did exactly nothing to help the matter along, since he clung to Crowley’s waist for a stubborn moment before begrudgingly letting him go.

“Coming right back,” Crowley mumbled, a little slurred, as he held the condom in place and tottered his way to the bathroom. Once there, he got rid of the thing and summarily washed up, feeling gloriously filthy and rather sticky. He came back to the bedroom on unsteady legs, with a wet washcloth in hand, to find Aziraphale still sprawled amidst an angry nest of messy blankets, naked and with his eyes closed. Crowley stood there for a long moment, drinking in the sight, before stepping closer.

He was just beginning to worry about waking Aziraphale up when the man cracked an eye open, taking Crowley in with a smirk.

“I should be the one taking care of you,” he hummed, with a rather pointed look at the washcloth in Crowley’s hand.

Crowley shrugged, climbing onto the bed and wiping off the sweat shining on that broad chest, before slipping it between those strong legs to get rid of the lube and the saliva that were probably making the skin all tacky and itchy.

“Do Doms never take a day off?” he quipped. The word rolled a bit awkwardly off his tongue, but it was the right one, and Crowley covered his uneasiness by ambling back to the bathroom to get rid of the filthy washcloth.

“Not really,” Aziraphale sighed at his retreating back. It was a bit loaded, as far as statements went, but Crowley was feeling a bit too spacey and blissed out to look at it too closely. He climbed back onto the bed and took Aziraphale in his arms, rearranging them both to lie with their heads on the pillows as he basked in the press of heated skin against his own.

There was something lovely, in holding a naked Aziraphale in the full light of day. It made for sharper colours than those dim lamps, and his hair seemed to shine like golden threads in the sunshine, his eyes to shimmer of an even brighter blue. He looked soft and handsome and overflowing with such a sticky, pervading peace that it lapped at the jagged corners of Crowley’s uneasy mind, soothing the ruffled feathers, quieting the bristling waves. Crowley touched that broad chest, playing with the curly hairs scattered across his pecs, and entwined their legs together as he pressed his nose in the soft hollow behind the hinges of Aziraphale’s jaw. There was something addictive to the scent of his skin, and Crowley inhaled deeply, breathing him in.

“Do you have something nice planned for tomorrow, darling?” Aziraphale murmured in a lazy voice, after a while. He was holding Crowley against his side with a loose grip, nuzzling and kissing his hair.

“Hmm. My Bentley needs a bit of looking after, I guess,” Crowley mumbled back, too busy playing with Aziraphale’s hand to think properly about the question. He realised in a short succession that the afternoon was slowly drawing to an end, and that he should probably get going soon. He was a bit startled to find out that he didn’t really want to.

_Greedy boy._

Perhaps Aziraphale did have a point, after all.

He pondered a moment about what to say next. He didn’t know how to ask to stay another night, to have dinner together and then that enticing sex he didn’t seem to be able to do without anymore. He didn’t really have the words for it. And he’d been Aziraphale’s guest for long enough, after all. He didn’t want to impose. Aziraphale surely had better things to do than entertain him for an entire weekend, and Crowley wasn’t sure he could handle the sight of that kind man trying to hide his annoyance at Crowley’s request to stay another night because he didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

“What about you, angel?” he asked instead, a bit more timidly than he would’ve liked.

Aziraphale hummed, bringing Crowley’s hand to his lips and planting a string of idle, lingering kisses onto the naked skin.

“Tidy up the place a bit, I think. Get some groceries.” He very purposely ignored Crowley’s pointed smirk at that, and carried on. “I’m going to meet some colleagues of mine for a nightcap, early in the evening. Well, they are more friends than colleagues, but they’ve been colleagues for so long it feels strange to call them friends. Such an odd thing, don’t you think?”

Crowley hid his frown into the curve of Aziraphale’s neck. He’d got his answer about whether or not Aziraphale had any friends, apparently. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He was glad for him, of course, but he’d come to treasure the time they spent together perhaps a little too much. There was a deeply-hidden, primeval part of his brain that disliked the thought of Aziraphale dedicating his time to someone that wasn’t him.

Crowley chided himself for that knee-jerk reaction. He’d got a bit too used to having the entirety of the man’s attention focused on himself, apparently, but even in his abysmal ignorance Crowley knew that that sort of jealousy wasn’t a good sign. He’d do well to get used to Aziraphale having other people in his life, and the sooner, the better. He strongly doubted that those colleagues of his would take Aziraphale away from him, and it wasn’t Aziraphale’s fault if Crowley was a sad, lonely man who had alienated every friend he’d ever had in his life, aside from a rather stubborn nineteen-year-old that for some reason had been clinging to him like a limpet.

Then his unruly mind shifted slightly to whether Aziraphale would ever introduce Crowley to his friends, or even want to, and Crowley decided that it was high time to change the subject.

“Tell me,” he said, settling more comfortably against Aziraphale and stroking his cheek, “what is it that you like?”

“Hmm?” Aziraphale hummed, something idle and a bit sharp in his voice. “In bed, you mean? I thought we covered that before.”

Crowley scoffed.

“Yes, we talked about control and power exchange, but you never told me what _you_ like. In practice. What is it that you’d like to do with... _to_ me?”

Crowley’s inspired choice of words seemed to yield the hoped-for results. He felt Aziraphale shiver against his skin, a subtle, shuddering tremor, and Crowley pressed his lips against the ridge of Aziraphale’s jaw, stroking the round belly.

“What about clear-headed discussions?” Aziraphale chided him, but with no bite.

Crowley snorted in reply, lazily thumbing at Aziraphale’s pebbled nipple.

“I came not half an hour ago, this is the most clear-headed that I’ll ever be while talking about sex.”

His quip tore a laughter out of Aziraphale’s throat. Crowley felt the vibration of it against his cheek, and nosed at that lovely neck, pulling gently at Aziraphale’s nipple. He got a deep, shuddering sigh for his trouble, and Crowley smiled against that soft skin.

“All right,” Aziraphale gracefully conceded, rolling to the side to face Crowley properly. Crowley hadn’t really expected the move, and could only stare at him with wide eyes, as Aziraphale cupped Crowley’s cheek into his palm. Aziraphale searched his eyes for a long moment before carrying on, his voice a low, honeyed purr. “What I like. Well. I like for my partner to be helpless. To give up control completely, to be handled as I please. I like giving directions and being obeyed, of course. I like obvious disparities of power, in stance, in clothing. I like restraints. Blindfolds. I like to deny climax, from time to time, but I actually prefer to give it, when asked nicely. I like to be needed. I like... I like when my partner, my _submissive_, asks for things, begs for them, and I can give them to him. I like to play with my submissive’s body, wringing pleasure out of it. With my hands, mostly. With the rest of my body. With toys.” A deep inhale. “That’s... that’s roughly it.”

Crowley blinked, swallowing thickly. He hadn’t realised he’d been holding his breath during Aziraphale’s short speech, and inhaled a choppy, shuddering gulp of air. It was way too soon to get hard again, but his cock twitched against his thigh, skin breaking in goosebumps.

“Roughly?” he managed to groan, feeling shakily, vulnerably _alive_, as though a switch had been turned on under his skin. “Is there something _else_?”

A low chuckle, as Aziraphale kissed his forehead.

“I think that’s plenty for now, darling,” he grinned, before gathering him in his arms. “And you are positively freezing, my dear. Perhaps we should get dressed.”

Crowley’s entire body rebelled against the idea of losing the delicious feeling of Aziraphale’s bare skin against his own. He’d never had the chance to cuddle up naked to him, what with Aziraphale’s frankly ridiculous obsession for wearing appropriate sleepwear to bed, and he had every intention to take advantage of it.

“That’s what blankets are for,” he grumpily replied, pulling himself off Aziraphale’s loose embrace to grab a fistful of the duvet and drag it over their naked bodies. Then he fell back into Aziraphale’s arms, clinging blindly to him, and Aziraphale chuckled lowly in his chest as he held Crowley’s close and stroked his back.

“You know,” Aziraphale murmured against Crowley’s hair, “I could give you some reading material, if you’d like.”

It took Crowley a moment to place the offer. Then he slowly realised that Aziraphale had read his question about his preferences in bed exactly as Crowley had meant it, as a request for guidance in foreign waters, and he hid his face against Aziraphale’s neck at the bristling embarrassment washing over him. He’d begun to feel a bit like an inexperienced colt with Aziraphale, and while he didn’t necessarily like the experience, shedding his wanker-suit made him feel things in a visceral, almost violent way he’d never quite experienced before.

“Nah,” he grumbled, nuzzling the soft, warm skin right in front of him, “I’d rather have you telling me.”

Aziraphale seemed to find that answer particularly amusing.

“...you lazy boy,” he chuckled in his hair. “You’re a journalist, you’re supposed to love research!”

“I’m a _lousy_ journalist,” Crowley scoffed in reply. “My job is mostly about people telling me stuff, to be honest.”

That got him a brief, bristling silence.

“You’re not giving yourself enough credit,” Aziraphale answered eventually, in a low, grave voice, with something uncomfortably akin to sadness colouring its edges. It plucked a cord buried deep inside Crowley’s belly, something raw and something hidden, and it made him squirm a little in Aziraphale’s tight embrace.

“Yes. Well.” A beat, and then, a bit awkwardly: “How’s your next week looking?”

“Next week?” Aziraphale repeated, hesitating a moment before taking the change in subject in stride. “I see. It’s not looking very good, unfortunately. I have only late shifts during the week, and I’m working the weekend. But we could have lunch together, and I’m free on Thursday, if you’d like to spend the night.”

“Sounds good,” Crowley replied, relaxing in Aziraphale’s arms with a deep sigh. Aziraphale kissed his forehead, his cheeks, his nose, and eventually his lips.

They stayed in bed for a while longer, until the shadows from the setting sun grew too long to be ignored, sharing lazy kisses and light touches. There was something surprisingly soothing and subtly electric in having his half-hard cock gently fondled, even if it didn’t lead to anything, or tender hands stroking his back and brushing his hole. And Aziraphale was _truly_ partial to having his nipples played with, gasping and sighing into the silent flat as Crowley used his mouth and his teeth on the tender flesh.

It was with a significant lack of enthusiasm that Crowley eventually crawled out of Aziraphale’s warm bed. But it was getting late, and Aziraphale had grown rather peckish, insisting for Crowley to stay and share some sushi with him before heading home. Crowley had easily agreed, and soon they were sitting in Aziraphale’s crowded kitchen, more or less dignifiedly dressed, if a bit rumpled, and waiting for their dinner to be delivered.

The conversation slowed down a bit, as they ate. Aziraphale was rather focused on his dinner, seemingly happy to share his space with Crowley in silence, but some dead fish wasn’t enough to hold the entirety of Crowley’s attention. His mind started to wander, as he picked at his food, and Crowley found himself thinking of Aziraphale’s little speech, the heat of it rolling down his spine in a shiver. It was... surprisingly unsurprising, that Aziraphale would want _that_ from their sexual encounters. The more Aziraphale had spoken, the more sense Crowley had been able to make of what he’d been saying. Of course he would like obedience and pleading. Crowley had already divined that much. Restraints and blindfolds didn’t sound particularly extreme either. All in all, Aziraphale’s fantasies seemed rather tame, but Crowley knew better than to trust his assumptions by now. They hadn’t been particularly accurate so far.

Crowley realised slowly that the more he thought about it, the more curious he was getting.

“Angel?”

Blue eyes looked up from his plate, as Aziraphale diverted the entire weight of his attention from his sushi to Crowley. It felt like a monumental shift, and Crowley shivered a little at having that sort of focus firmly settled on him.

“Yes, dearest?”

“I, ah,” Crowley stuttered, realising that he didn’t have the slightest idea of what he wanted to say or how to say it, and that he’d acted rather impulsively, “I was wondering...”

“Yes?”

“When are we going to try?”

Aziraphale blinked at him, looking rather confused.

“Try?” he repeated, before understanding flickered into his face. “Oh. I see.” A short beat, then a deep, resigned sigh. “I’m not very good at holding back, especially when you are involved, so I guess we have been playing a little already. But if you mean a proper scene, I thought perhaps it would be best to try it out when we have a whole weekend for ourselves. It’s going to be our first, so I’d like for you to be relaxed, not stressed after work, and I’d like to have you to myself the following day, as well.” He looked a bit abashed as he said that, as though Crowley had some sort of hidden objection to the concept. Which Crowley most emphatically did _not_ have. “I’m working next weekend, but I thought perhaps we could try the weekend after?”

Crowley swallowed thickly at the thought.

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Good.” Aziraphale’s smile was brighter than the sun, as he looked at Crowley with such sweet eyes that his gaze felt like a touch. “Meanwhile, I’d like for you to think about what I told you. Really think. And I’d like for you to tell me if there is anything about it that makes you uncomfortable, or anything in general that you don’t like or you’d prefer to avoid when we are intimate.” His eyes turned sharper, then. “It’s very important to me. I’ll do the same.”

Crowley nodded. Aziraphale’s careful words took an entire new meaning after what he’d told Crowley about his past, and Crowley had no intention of doing anything that could push Aziraphale into such a painful situation ever again.

“Alright.”

Aziraphale’s bright smile was full of such a sweet approval that Crowley could only duck his head at the unbearable warmth of it, and he felt its soothing ripples all the way home.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely people!  
We’re slowly moving towards the end, but it’s going to take a while longer (possibly more than six chapters, which. Ugh.). Meanwhile, we have happily trampled over the 200k threshold, which is something I definitely did not have in mind when I started this thing, and I’m amazed at the amount of people who have been sticking with me through this. You are the very best, and make no mistake, I remember every single one of you. You have no idea how grateful I am for your continuous support.  
And talking about love, please, consider giving [uponwhatgrounds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uponwhatgrounds/pseuds/uponwhatgrounds) some for yet another stunning [piece of art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24000142/chapters/58781491). Thank you so, so much, my dearest artist. I appreciate your gifts more than words can say.  


“Tell me that the two of you have finally talked.”

Crowley blinked, looking slowly up from the flat screen of his computer. He wasn’t exactly surprised to see Anathema’s round face peeking out from over the plywood rim of his cubicle, but it took him a long moment to parse out what she was on about. She couldn’t actually mean to discuss Crowley and Aziraphale recent forays into the kinkier side of debauchery, could she? Because they hadn’t been having serious talks about much else, as of late, and Crowley didn’t feel ready to share _that_ with their barely legal intern.

Then he realised how utterly ridiculous that sounded, and how long since he’d actually sat down with her for a proper chat. He’d been avoiding Anathema since well before he and Aziraphale had agreed to try out a relationship, and how far off in time that seemed right then and there! It hadn’t been more than a couple of weeks, but so much had happened in between that to Crowley it seemed like months had passed. And now, since she actually cared about him, she’d decided to force the issue and flush him out, no matter how much of an arse he’d been.

There was a tiny prick of shame laced to that thought. Crowley couldn’t really blame anyone but himself for having no friends left, if he treated them that way. And he _had_, there was no way around it. He’d always put his needs before anyone else’s, and those who hadn’t simply outgrown him through the years had left him to rot in his own mess when he failed to return calls or never once reached out first, too distracted by the catch of the week to bother with anything that wasn’t his prick.

Perhaps the time had come to do better. It wasn’t like he had so many friends left that he could afford losing the only one still sticking around, after all.

Crowley sighed, putting down the pen that he’d been steadily rapping against his mouth.

“We talked,” he admitted, prompting Anathema’s lips to stretch into a blinding grin.

“About time!” she declared, walking around his cubicle to seize his arm and pull him rather unwilling onto his feet. “Come, I just brewed a new pot of disgusting coffee. I know how much you hate Mondays. It will cheer you up.”

Crowley snorted, allowing Anathema to drag him all the way to the dingy kitchenette. There, he accepted the mug she shoved into his hand and relented a bit on his vow of silence about what was going on between Aziraphale and himself.

“We are trying out the relationship thing, if you must know,” he haughtily grumbled, trying to convey that while he was in a somewhat sharing mood, it wasn’t a boundless offer, but discretion was clearly a language in which Anathema wasn’t particularly well-versed.

“It was about time someone made an honest man out of you,” she leered, prompting a gruff scoff out of Crowley. “I bet Aziraphale was the one approaching the subject.”

“Maybe,” Crowley conceded, sipping at his coffee as an effective means to hide his face behind his mug.

It was Anathema’s turn to scoff.

“Please. He’s the only one with a bit of sense between the two of you, which doesn’t mean he actually has much of it to begin with, but at least enough to cover the basis.”

“I resent that,” Crowley protested, not quite knowing whether he was more piqued at Anathema’s insinuation that he didn’t have any sense or the way she talked about Aziraphale. Either way, she seemed to pick up on his mood easy enough, leer widening on her round, pretty face.

“You’re a sweet man, deep down, aren’t you?” she cooed, which was more than unsettling. “I bet the two of you are all sorts of disgustingly sappy together.”

“We are _not_!” Crowley protested, trying and failing to find some measure of cool from wherever the coward had promptly escaped at the first sign of danger. “And will you stop gloating? It’s... it’s _unbecoming_, that’s what it is!”

“You’re even starting to talk like him, how adorable,” Anathema purred, an unholy light shimmering in her dark eyes. “When are you going to see him again?”

Crowley thought for a moment about picking up whatever was left of his dignity and stomping out of the kitchen, but it felt way too much trouble. He deflated with a deep, long-suffering sigh, and settled a bit more comfortably against the disgusting counter.

“Later today, we’re having lunch together,” he admitted, ignoring Anathema’s triumphant grin.

“I knew the two of you were going to work out,” she sagely said, with a spark of self-satisfaction flitting clear and pointed in her voice. “The tarots never lie.”

Crowley opened his mouth to protest the absurdity of that statement, but he thought better of it. If the tarots said that Aziraphale and he were going to work out, who was Crowley to doubt it?

* * *

Lunch together on a relatively sunny Monday morning turned into a repeated act on a rainy Tuesday, and by the time Crowley dropped Aziraphale off at his workplace on a rather mild if overcast Wednesday he couldn’t quite remember whose idea had been in the first place to meet up three times in three days, after their quiet Sunday apart. What he _did_ know, was that sitting at the opposite sides of one of the tiny tables of _Heavenly Delight_ sharing some sort of quiet, peaceful intimacy had started to feel almost _domestic_ to his bristling sensibilities.

In the same way, their conversations remained stubbornly, maddeningly mundane. Aziraphale spoke a little about his Sunday evening with his colleagues, which made for some sort of monthly event, and Crowley shared rather distractedly a few quirky details about his last interviews. It made him squirm on his seat, that family-friendly chattering, when he couldn’t stop thinking about Aziraphale’s words, that honeyed voice of his whispering that he meant to blindfold him, to have his wicked way with Crowley’s helpless, bound body.

True to his word, Crowley had, in fact, spent quite some time debating the entire quandary of power play and Aziraphale’s preferences, and he’d come out with the rather unsettling realisation that he didn’t have any objection to the whole lot of it. In fact, he found himself quite keen on trying, and frustrated by how tame their lunch dates were turning out to be. From the knowing looks Aziraphale would throw at him every now and again, the bastard was probably perfectly aware of the fact, but he didn’t seem in any rush to act on it. It was nothing but fair, then, that Crowley would take the situation quite literally in hand and wank away the tension himself, on all fours on his bed, fingering his clenching hole and imagining Aziraphale behind him, holding him down and teasing him with a toy. Crowley had come all over the bed with a shuddering groan, and spent quite a bit of time lying on his back, away from the wet spot, wondering exactly which sort of toys Aziraphale hoarded in his cluttered flat.

For their date on Thursday evening, Aziraphale claimed a sudden craving for Greek food and took him to a charmingly hackneyed restaurant in Bloomsbury with cheap replicas of Greek statues in the corners and huge pictures of Aegean islands peering into the dimly lit hall from the projecting shadows of hanging drapes. The place was full, which grated a little on Crowley’s nerves, but Aziraphale worked his regular-customer magic and got them a secluded table in a quiet corner. Aziraphale fed him battered squid as appetizer and they ended up sharing the mousaka and kleftiko they had ordered as main courses. As always the shameless hedonist, Aziraphale took ages on end to savour the elaborate cup of Greek yoghurt that had come as a dessert, and Crowley spied with a spark of shivering electricity his pink tongue liking a smear of honey off those soft lips.

They went for a walk after dinner, chattering between themselves as locals and tourists alike streamed around them like a current, before heading back to Soho. November was drawing to an end, and the temperatures were approaching frigid. Crowley was grateful for the sanctuary offered by Aziraphale’s flat, as cold as it was while the ancient heating system moaned and sputtered back to life, especially when a pervading, heavy drizzle was starting to pour down on London’s narrow streets outside the thin windows.

“The heating was on for the best part of the day, but these old buildings aren’t very good at holding the warmth in,” Aziraphale grumbled in the way of an excuse, as he came back from the kitchen with a bit of a frown on his expressive face. “A few hours left to its own devices and the place is colder than an icehouse. I’m sorry, darling. It will warm up soon.”

“’s ok,” Crowley hummed, kicking away his boots and curling up on the sofa. “I survived this place before.”

Aziraphale tutted at that uncalled-for cheek towards his beloved draughty flat, but he picked up the tartan blanket messily thrown upon the backrest and wrapped Crowley tightly in it.

“Would you like some more wine, dear?” he fretted, in a way that Crowley had begun to find hopelessly endearing. “It will warm you up.”

“Wine it is.”

Crowley burrowed into the blanket, as Aziraphale disappeared into the kitchen. He was starting to enjoy being fussed over, perhaps a bit too much for his own good. But if Aziraphale liked it so, well. Crowley was nothing but an accommodating lover.

“Here, darling,” Aziraphale said, coming back from the kitchen with two round glasses. Crowley pushed a hand out of his warm nest just enough to take the half-full glass Aziraphale was holding out for him, and once the handing over had been successfully carried out, Aziraphale sat primly down by his side with his own half-full glass. Crowley scoffed at that daft idea and shifted closer, lifting a corner of the blanket and spreading it over Aziraphale’s knees, as he burrowed into Aziraphale’s sturdy side and revelled in the heat given off by his skin.

“Careful, darling, or you’ll spill your wine,” Aziraphale warned him, but without bite. He wrapped an arm around Crowley’s waist and held him close, tilting his head slightly to press his cheek against the crown of Crowley’s head while they sipped at Aziraphale’s luscious Merlot Cabernet in an easy silence.

“What’s a drop?” Crowley asked, after a long moment. He could share a bit of quiet with Aziraphale for far longer than anyone else in his entire life, but his mind would start to get restless, after a while, and his mouth would quickly follow.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy simply listening to their combined breathing, and he always sounded somewhat sleepy, when Crowley brought him back.

“Hmm?”

“A drop,” Crowley repeated. He thought about bringing up Aziraphale’s experience, but hesitated at the very last minute, and said instead: “You said I dropped. Last time we met. What does that mean?”

Aziraphale settled his empty glass on the cluttered table with a sigh, nuzzling Crowley’s hair.

“You should really consider reading something on the subject, you know.”

“Or you could indulge me and tell me yourself,” Crowley purred back, handing Aziraphale his own empty glass. Aziraphale put it on the desk and turned around fully to hold Crowley against his chest. “You said that you like indulging your partners, after all. Didn’t you?”

“You are a menace,” Aziraphale grumbled, which wasn’t a no. Crowley fussed about with the blanket until they were both safely ensconced in an overly fluffy layer of tartan fleece, which was an eyesore, but pleasantly warm, and ended up with his long legs bent at the knees and straddling Aziraphale’s thighs, as he pressed the long line of his nose against the jut of Aziraphale’s jaw. “Fine, fine. There is a specific sort of heightened state, associated with intense power exchanges. Giving up control completely or assuming absolute control over someone else can bring about endorphin and adrenaline spikes, which make for a huge part of the overall appeal to this sort of play, but the human body is not built to sustain these levels of neurochemicals over long periods of time. A spike is followed by a crash, which can be... tricky to manage. Especially if the person experiencing the crash is not very familiar with the scene and its possible consequences, or if the play that had brought about the spike in the first place had been upsetting in some way.”

It was quite a bit to take in. Crowley rolled the concepts about in his head for a moment, while Aziraphale waited patiently for him to come to term with them.

“And that’s a drop.”

“That’s a drop, yes.”

“And you think that’s happened to me?”

Aziraphale seemed to think it over for a moment, before cautiously carrying on.

“I think you went into a very light subspace a couple of times, while we were intimate. I tried to give you proper aftercare, and hoped it would be mild enough for you to gloss over the lows in your endorphin levels, but I think I... miscalculated.” Crowley pressed close to Aziraphale, as he felt the shockwaves of that old shame shudder in Aziraphale’s hushed, guarded voice. “Giving up control means a heightened state of vulnerability. I didn’t think you’d have such a strong reaction to it, and against it. It was a rather stupid mistake to make, all in all.”

“And why is that?” Crowley asked, a bit gruffly, trying to cover how quickly they were approaching uncomfortable territory but determined to see that discussion through. He was tired of diverting attention, dodging questions. Dancing on tiptoes was splintering his bones.

There was such an obvious hesitation in Aziraphale’s cautious voice, as he answered, that Crowley felt a spike of shame bloom in his chest.

“Well, darling. You are not exactly... keen on speaking about yourself. You are guarded, wary. Which is not a reproach,” Aziraphale rushed to reassure him, with obvious concern, “since I’m not exactly forthcoming either. But I should’ve guessed, perhaps, that you’d be uncomfortable showing those levels of vulnerability.”

Crowley pressed his forehead against Aziraphale’s cheek, taking a moment to parse through his own scattered thoughts. There was something soothing in Aziraphale’s scent, something _familiar_, and Crowley allowed the physical proximity to ease his frazzled nerves, to crack open doors he’d always held closed under locks and keys.

“I’m not good with... that. _Vulnerability_.” The word felt odd rolling off his tongue, a bit jarring and vaguely shameful, for some reasons that Crowley couldn’t really identify. “You don’t go ‘round showing your soft underbelly to complete strangers. But you are not a stranger. And I trust you.”

The arms curled around his waist tightened their grip for a moment, as Aziraphale buried his face into Crowley’s hair. Crowley held him through it, until the moment passed, the intensity slowly abated.

“Drop symptoms are similar to depression, in a way. Fatigue. Feelings of worthlessness, guilt. General anxiety. Sadness.” Aziraphale’s voice was low, delicate, in a way. “You broke down completely while we were being intimate. I think... I think you’d been dropping for a while, and somehow that evening was the last straw.”

“It’s not your fault, though,” Crowley felt compelled to reassure him. “Maybe what we did precipitated the situation, but the problem was already there.”

“Will you tell me which problem is that?” Aziraphale said into his hair, very clear, and very slowly.

Crowley should’ve anticipated the question, really, but it still managed to startle him. It also made him realise that he’d never even hinted about problems in his life with anyone else before, and he had no words to describe that, now. It had existed so long inside his own head that he didn’t know how to give it a life outside the dusty plan of his scattered thoughts, to give it form, and meaning.

“I don’t... I don’t know how,” Crowley whispered, truthfully, as he pressed his face against Aziraphale’s neck. He got a soft kiss on the crown of his head for his trouble, and gentle hands stroking his back.

“Hush, then. It’s all right. You don’t have to.”

Crowley wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that. Long enough for his quickened breath to slow down, for his tense muscles to loosen up a bit.

He didn’t really want to bring the subject back, so he nuzzled Aziraphale’s neck, to let him know he was all right.

“Subspace, then.”

Aziraphale hummed softly at that.

“Yes. We talked about adrenaline and endorphin spikes. Subspace is a headspace which submissives can reach, when the effects of the scene are intense enough.” A beat. “I’m not... Loss of control is not something I enjoy, so I never experienced that, not even when I tried submitting during my University days. From what I’ve read and what I’ve been told, it should be something akin to a feeling of complete relaxation, a trance-like headspace. Thinking becomes increasingly difficult, like speaking, and moving. It can be... frightening.”

It also sounded familiar enough that Crowley decided to take a moment to ponder on the concept. He’d never really experienced anything of the like before Aziraphale, but he also never quite had sex that good with anyone else. And it wasn’t just sex. It was that excruciating intimacy. Aziraphale’s words reached him deep, deeper than anything or anyone had ever managed, plucking chords he hadn’t even suspected to have. He had known from the start of their affair that intimacy was the key, that he reacted impossibly strongly to it, just like he reacted to Aziraphale’s care, Aziraphale’s voice. Was it really so surprising that Crowley was experiencing with him something that had never really happened to him before? It wasn’t like any of his past hook-ups had tried for anything beyond mutual hand jobs and quick, impersonal shags, after all.

“I think... I think I felt something like that, yes,” Crowley answered eventually, if a bit guardedly. “Like a... haziness.”

“Did it scare you?”

It was easier to be truthful, in the small, warm space under the jut of Aziraphale’s jaw.

“A little. It was something... new.” Crowley frowned. “I’m not... inexperienced, you know. I’ve done _stuff_. I didn’t think I was going to have brand new experiences been dumped on me at my tender age. I’m almost forty, for crying out loud.”

“Yes, you are a wise old man, my dear,” Aziraphale answered, with something appallingly close to a _snicker_. “I’d never thought anything different.”

“You’ll see if I _ever_ trust a librarian again,” Crowley grumbled, with much less bite that he’d have liked. “You are a nasty, kinky lot.”

That seemed enough to tip the scale and send Aziraphale into a fit of laughter, to which Crowley eventually decided in a show of magnanimity to partake.

“Do you have any more questions, darling?” Aziraphale chuckled, once they sobered up. The mood had turned much lighter, and there was a definitive wicked purpose to the way his broad hands were stroking Crowley’s back.

“Just one,” Crowley mumbled, slowly undoing Aziraphale’s bowtie and popping open the first buttons of his shirt, freeing more of his sensitive neck. “What’s aftercare?”

“It’s, ah, it’s a bit of pampering at the end of the scene,” Aziraphale sighed, distractedly fondling Crowley’s arse with both hands while Crowley sucked biting kisses into his tender throat. “Giving the submissive some, ah, attention, helps him to get through the endorphin crash, and, well, it helps the Dominant too. It helps _me_. I, I like it.”

“Pampering, is it?” Crowley purred, slipping a hand between Aziraphale’s thighs to feel his cock, hot and wonderfully thick even through the layers of his trousers and pants, and steadily hardening under Crowley’s palm. “Like what?”

“There are different types of aftercare, ah, you _devil_–but I prefer to offer physical comfort and gentle touches. We can negotiate that too, if you’d like.”

“Negotiate?”

“Yes.” A deep groan, as Aziraphale pushed into the hand rubbing the stiffening line of his cock. “How long it should last, for example. Which sorts of attentions might work better for you.”

“Should we discuss that right now?” Crowley playfully teased.

“If you _truly_ wish it, yes, but then you’d better take your hand off my trousers,” Aziraphale growled in reply, low and a bit piqued.

“It can keep, then,” Crowley laughed, even as he moved his hand away to cradle Aziraphale’s face in his palms and press a string of wet, open-mouthed kisses to his lips. Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind the lack of pressure, sliding his tongue in Crowley’s mouth as he sank his fingers into Crowley’s bony arse as far as his jeans would allow.

Soon enough, the blanket was lying on the floor, and Crowley was sitting on the couch in his black shirt and purple tie, naked from the waist down, with a rather purposeful Aziraphale kneeling between his spread legs and busy trying to suck Crowley’s soul out of his cock. Crowley wailed as Aziraphale swallowed his release, and then he was towed without a word to the bedroom and spread out on the duvet like a feast, with a perfectly dressed and maddeningly unruffled Aziraphale looming over him.

“Be a dear, my darling boy, and lie still for me,” Aziraphale purred, unbuttoning his trousers and rucking up Crowley’s shirt to his armpits. Then Crowley got to watch, still hazy and blissed out after his orgasm, as Aziraphale pulled out his thick prick and started to work himself in slow, steady pulls, a pink blush dusting his cheeks. His cock looked lovely in his manicured hand, and Crowley’s gaze zeroed on the push and pull of foreskin over the shaft, bunching up over the bridge of Aziraphale’s thumb, on the flared cockhead and the precome oozing from the tender slit and dripping onto his own bare stomach. He almost begged for Aziraphale to let him use his mouth on that gorgeous cock of his, but he was still too dazed, too hypnotised by the sure touches of those sturdy hands on the thick shaft and the heavy sack, too focused on the gasp and groans coming out of that soft mouth. He sighed in unison with Aziraphale’s shuddering keen, as the man came all over Crowley’s belly.

They lay there in silence, some time later, cleaned up and safely ensconced in the barriers of their respective sleepwear, and Crowley fell asleep with the gentle touch of Aziraphale’s hand stroking his hair.

* * *

The weekend seemed to last forever, as Crowley shuffled about his flat and tried to distract himself with his greenery and his car. The contractor workers he’d hired to fix his blasted floor showed up a bit too early for comfort on Saturday morning, but they left within the hour, leaving behind a flawless woodwork and a nice dent in his bank account. After cleaning up the place to his heart’s content, Crowley moved on to his Bentley, which was in dire need of a good waxing, and then redirected his efforts towards a couple of rubber plants that had to be repotted sooner rather than later. As he sprawled over the couch to watch a _Golden Girls_ rerun, however, he couldn’t help but ruminate over that spreading feeling of emptiness pervading his solitary weekend.

He was lonely. There was no way around it. Aziraphale was busy and Crowley was bored and lonely. Which was a rather nasty can of worms to open, since Crowley wasn’t entirely sure he was supposed to feel that way, especially when Aziraphale and he seemed to be attached at the hip on every given day. He was clingy enough; he didn’t want to end up pathetically codependent on his partner to the point that anything that wasn’t his company lost any meaning. But since he’d been bored and lonely even before Aziraphale had come into his life, he wasn’t completely sure the problem lay that way. He considered the quandary for a moment, before deciding that that was a bit more than he could chew on a lazy Sunday morning, and filed it away for later perusal.

Luckily enough, they’d agreed to meet up on Monday evening, which didn’t come one minute too soon in Crowley’s opinion. He was looking forward to Aziraphale’s company, and even more to Aziraphale’s touch. He hadn’t been shagged for a while now, and he hoped Aziraphale would be amenable to some suggestions. Well, Crowley _knew_ he would, which made for a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach, that timid but steely certainty that his needs would be met, if he only spoke them out loud. Which could be a tricky thing at times, but asking to be buggered into the mattress was something within Crowley’s reach.

They’d decided for an afternoon tea for their date, since Aziraphale had an early shift, and Crowley ended up munching rather distractedly on a couple of cucumber sandwiches as Aziraphale smirked at him with a knowing look and sipped daintily and maddeningly calmly at his Earl Grey. After insisting to pay, Crowley almost rushed out of the place, followed rather slowly by a placid Aziraphale, who had the nerve of suggesting going for a walk before snickering into his fist at Crowley’s dismayed face and magnanimously granting permission to go back to his flat in a suitably speedy fashion. He’d barely managed to close the door behind his back that Crowley was on him, kicking away his bag while simultaneously cupping Aziraphale’s precious face in his palms and trying to pull him towards the bedroom between hungry kisses. Aziraphale chuckled at his eagerness but offered no complaints, though he did grasp Crowley’s wrists after some rather ineffectual wrangling.

“You go ahead, darling,” Aziraphale whispered, “while I turn on the heating. I wouldn’t want for you to catch your death.”

“But...” Crowley tried to protest, unwilling to let go, and getting tutted at for his trouble.

“There is no reason to hurry, sweetheart,” Aziraphale declared, rather firmly. He seemed to dislike being rushed in their encounters, and Crowley was starting to suspect that Aziraphale approached sex the same way he approached food, savouring every last bit of it with the utter abandonment of a true sensualist. “You go ahead and get started. I’ll join you presently.”

Crowley swallowed tickly.

“Get started...?”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale said, a wicked twinkle in his eyes. “What is it that you would like to do, tonight?”

Crowley took a deep breath, feeling weirdly exposed, standing in Aziraphale’s cluttered living room and giving air to his needs. He licked his lips, vaguely aware of the way Aziraphale’s eyes tracked the nervous gesture.

“I want you to fuck me.”

Aziraphale inhaled sharply, but that was the only sign he’d been affected by Crowley’s words in any way.

“Well, then. I think you know what is required for the task.”

Crowley did know that, indeed. He also had a pretty good idea of what Aziraphale actually meant, and couldn’t avoid a shudder slithering down his back as he hung rather hastily his scarf and coat. He barely took the time to throw his sunglasses on the nearest flat surface before sprinting towards the bedroom, pulling off his turtleneck along the way. He chucked the piece of clothing onto the armchair and kicked off his boots, then got quickly rid of his trousers and pants and crawled naked on top of the thick tartan comforter blanketing the tartan-coloured duvet cover. He found a towel primly folded at the foot of the bed, and spread it over the quilt, before reaching for the lube and the condoms Aziraphale kept in the drawer on his night table. The thought of protecting the beddings in any way was still a bit foreign to Crowley, who’d simply chuck the whole lot of them into the washing machine as needed, but Aziraphale was a bit fussy in that regard, and Crowley had every intention of complying with his wishes.

He was just about to get himself in place, lube at hand, when Aziraphale stepped into the bedroom.

It hadn’t occurred to Crowley to make himself alluring, focused as he was on getting ready as soon as possible, and he was a bit chagrined at the lost chance of posing a bit for Aziraphale, but from the hungry look in those blue eyes he needn’t have worried. Aziraphale was staring at the rangy form of his partner, presently on all four on the blanket and staring at him like the daftest deer in the headlights ever known to man, as though he wanted nothing more than to swallow him whole.

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed, slowly unbuttoning his cufflinks. “You are a vision, dearest. Would you like... ah, would you mind... carrying on?”

Crowley could feel the thumping of his heart in the back of his head, and swallowed thickly at the fetching blush rising on Aziraphale’s cheeks. He’d been half-hard since Aziraphale had fished into his pocket for the keys, standing on the pavement in front of the heavy, worn-out door of Aziraphale’s building block, and was quickly getting fully hard now, naked and exposed to Aziraphale’s pointed gaze.

“You want me to open myself up, angel?” he purred, if a bit breathlessly, because he knew this game, he’d done it before, and he could make it so good to Aziraphale. “Give you a bit of a show?”

“Hmm. No need for theatrics. Just... touch yourself.” Aziraphale’s eyes looked wide enough to engulf the world, his hands trembling a bit as he took off his stopwatch and gently settled it down with its golden chain onto the crowded chest of drawers. “As though you were at home, alone. Thinking of me. Thinking of my fingers, pressing deep inside of you.”

Crowley gasped softly at the words, his own hands unsteady as he uncapped the lube and spread a generous dollop onto his fingers. He’d put on a bit of a show for his partners before, yes, but not with Aziraphale’s honeyed voice pouring polite filth into his ear. He’d miscalculated, apparently. Again.

“Have you ever done that, sweetheart?” Aziraphale asked, hands busy unbuttoning his waistcoat, purring voice so perfectly pitched that Crowley could detect the slight strain of that question only because he was pathetically attuned to every single mood shift of the man. “Have you ever thought of me, as you touched yourself?”

“You daft man,” Crowley groaned, down to his elbow and reaching behind himself to spread cool lube on his twitching opening. “Of course I have. Since before we started fucking.” A beat, as Crowley frowned a little at the crudity of that statement, and amended it: “Being together.”

“What have you been thinking about?”

Crowley closed his eyes, forehead pressed tight against his forearm. The angle was not much good for anything aside forcing the rim open, and so he did, teasing his hole briefly with one finger until he was relaxed enough to take another. He groaned at the stretch, and felt Aziraphale’s sharp intake of breath like a pure note, hanging in the heavy air.

“I thought about you fingering me, blowing me, eating me out. Shagging me.” He fisted the towel, elbow digging into the mattress as he spread his fingers, forcing his hole to give ground, to open up. “I thought about you covering my eyes with your hand while you fucked me.”

“Oh, darling,” Aziraphale breathed, voice hushed and husky. Crowley felt the mattress dip under the man’s weight, but he didn’t stop, forcing his rim to take a third finger. His cock had gone a bit soft, but he could feel himself leaking onto the towel, a shuddering, wretched mess. “Would you like that now?”

Crowley swallowed thickly, his forehead leaving a sweaty imprint on his forearm as he twitched. He groaned, the sound being torn out of his throat, as he felt Aziraphale’s broad hand splay against the heated skin of his bony back.

“_Please_.”

“Everything you need, my sweet boy.” A choppy sigh, as Aziraphale brushed his wrist. “I’ll take over, now.”

Crowley let go with a deep, shuddering sigh, slipping his fingers out of his arse and planting both elbows onto the towel. He half-expected the press of Aziraphale’s cock against his hole, but he wasn’t too surprised to feel the nudge of slick fingers instead, pressing in.

“Let’s see how well you did, my darling,” Aziraphale purred, the tingling purpose of his words spreading like wildfire in Crowley’s veins. Aziraphale fingered him deeply, forcing his walls to open up, giving ground to the intrusion. Three fingers in one go, Crowley was pretty sure of it. He gasped at the pressure, at the exquisite stretch. “Still a bit tight, but loose enough to take me. Very good, my dear boy.”

Crowley groaned at the praise, panting in the shadowy, damp space between his forearm and the rucked-up towel. He could feel his skin ripple in shudders, his hardening cock twitching. He keened, shuddering and high-pitched, as Aziraphale rubbed his prostate with clever fingers.

“I think you are ready, dearest,” Aziraphale whispered sweetly, bringing a hand between Crowley’s thighs to finger gently his cockhead as he pressed heated kisses against the small of his back. “It wouldn’t do for you to reach climax before I’m inside you.”

Crowley scoffed at that, though the sound that came out of his mouth was closer to a wheeze than anything else, but it soon turned into a displeased groan as Aziraphale’s lovely fingers slipped out of him. They were soon replaced by the blunt head of his latex-covered cock, and Crowley sighed at the rising pressure, as Aziraphale slowly but firmly thrust inside.

“You feel so wonderful, sweetheart,” Aziraphale sighed, as he pushed all the way in. Crowley shivered at the nudge of Aziraphale’s balls against his taint, at how big he felt between his walls. Aziraphale gave a few experimental thrusts, making him keen, before urging him up on his knees.

The change in position felt disorientating for a moment, until Aziraphale pulled Crowley tight against his naked chest, holding him up. His cock didn’t reach quite so deep from that angle, but the stretch was magnificent, the pressure on Crowley’s prostate exquisite. Crowley groaned at the first thrust, throwing his head back against Aziraphale’s shoulder, and reached back to sink his fingers into those generous hips.

“Relax, my dove,” Aziraphale whispered straight into his ear, his warm breath ticklish against sensitive skin. “You did so well, preparing yourself for me. Let me take care of you, now.”

Crowley almost sobbed at the tenderness of those words, feeling already a bit lightheaded, slipping, his cock bobbing between his legs at every thrust and his skin rippling in goosebumps at every spark of pleasure unfurling deep into his guts. He felt almost like shattering, when Aziraphale pressed a hand tight against his stomach to keep him upright, and covered his eyes with the other.

“My darling, sweet Crowley,” Aziraphale crooned, as Crowley gasped into his touch, his hips rolling into Aziraphale’s steady thrusts without conscience, chasing the electrifying brush of Aziraphale’s thick cockhead against his prostate. “No need to see anything, to hear anything, to say anything, to think of anything. Relax. Feel my hands on you, my cock in you. Nothing else exists, right now. The world, with its tragedies and pleasures, is gone. There is no one else but us, nothing else but this.” A kiss, tender and sweet, right behind his ear. “Don’t be frightened, my darling. Let go. I will catch you.”

And Crowley, in a terrifying leap of faith, did just so.

He felt the world lose its edges as he let himself be submerged, as he allowed Aziraphale’s body to redefine the concept of existence. There was a soothing, loving darkness underneath Aziraphale’s soft, heated palm, and Crowley surrendered to it, to the feeling of being held, of being cared for, of being touched so dramatically sweetly. He felt his back arch, somewhere far off, but he was drifting, pleasure sparking and blooming like an orchid behind his eyelids. He let out a stuttering groan when Aziraphale’s hand closed around his cock, and suddenly everything was taking a sharper hue, the relentless pummelling on his prostate twisting around that jagged pleasure being milked from his cock in strong, purposeful strokes. Soon he was coming, toes curling and back arching, as he spurted thick and heavy all over Aziraphale’s hand and the towel.

Aziraphale’s thrusts slowed down after that, until he stopped entirely. Crowley whined at the loss when Aziraphale slipped out of his loose body, but allowed himself to be lowered down on the filthy towel, positioned like a doll, with his heated face pressed into the pillow and his arse in the air. He keened softly at the feeling of strong hands spreading his cheeks, a thumb brushing his fluttering, used hole.

“You are still so open, my darling, so beautifully sensitive,” Aziraphale sighed, his voice bristling with barely suppressed hunger. “I would very much like to dirty you up a bit.”

Crowley grunted, taking a moment to realise that Aziraphale was asking permission to come all over his arse. He licked his lips, feeling far-off and pleasantly buzzed, and forced his roughened-up voice to push past his slack mouth.

“Go ahead.”

Aziraphale didn’t need to be told twice. Crowley heard the telltale snap of a condom being pulled off, and then Aziraphale was holding him open with one hand, as he touched himself with the other. Crowley wished vaguely he could see that, but he merely lay there, listening to the sounds of flesh being stroked, of hard breathing becoming chopped, laboured, until Aziraphale let out a string of groans and came all over Crowley’s twitching hole.

Crowley was drifting in a pleasant haze, by the time Aziraphale fetched a wet cloth and cleaned him up, back and front, and gently settled his slowly cooling body onto the thick coverlet. He curled up into him when Aziraphale finally joined him on the bed, and promptly lost track of time as he nosed the sweet spot under Aziraphale’s jaws and revelled in the feeling of those stocky fingers playing with his hair. He felt a bit disgusting, but sweat was quickly drying up on his skin, and Aziraphale was just as sticky as he pressed their bare bodies together.

Then the world started to come back, thoughts to stir into his hazy brain, and Crowley stroked tenderly Aziraphale’s cheek, as Aziraphale peppered gentle kisses to his forehead. Soon Crowley was bringing their mouths together, and they kissed shallowly, lazily, until the cool flat became a little too chilly for them to lie simply on top of the covers. Crowley had no intention of stopping any time soon, but his traitor body broke into a shiver, and Aziraphale would have none of it.

“You are freezing, darling,” he predictably said, pushing away from him even as Crowley chased his lips. “We’d better get some clothes on.”

Crowley thought about debating him on the issue, but he was still too blissed out to put up that sort of fight. He acquiesced, if rather begrudgingly, and went to take a piss and clean himself up, before heading to the living room to dig some sleepwear out of his mistreated travel bag. He came back to the bedroom as Aziraphale was buttoning up the tartan shirt of his pyjamas, and bestowed a last mournful look upon the thick chest that was being so thoroughly hidden.

“I fancy some cocoa, I think,” Aziraphale told him cheerfully. “Would you like some too, darling?”

Crowley made a face.

“I’m not big on sweets, angel, but thank you.”

“Anything else?”

“’m good.”

“All right, then.”

Aziraphale disappeared with a cheerful spring in his steps, while Crowley brushed his teeth and slipped into Aziraphale’s wonderfully warm bed. He was idly scrolling through a few social networks on his phone when Aziraphale came back, a frankly ridiculous white winged mug in his hands. Crowley arched his brows at the sight, and was treated with a high blush on Aziraphale’s soft cheeks as he joined Crowley under the covers.

“Does that thing have _wings_, angel? Really?”

“_You_ are the one who keeps calling me angel,” Aziraphale haughtily answered, taking a sip at his cocoa. “You shouldn’t act so surprised I followed your lead on the matter.”

The comeback startled a laughter out of Crowley, which in turn made Aziraphale’s lips twitch in a half-aborted smile. He curled up into Aziraphale’s side, relishing the feeling of Aziraphale’s arm around his shoulders as he instinctively held Crowley closer.

In all truth, Crowley was relieved. He remembered all too well Aziraphale’s prickly answer at being called an angel for the very first time, and everything that had come after, the layered heartbreak that had piled up on Aziraphale’s shoulders while growing up. After what Aziraphale had told him, Crowley could only be glad that Aziraphale had finally come to terms with his past enough to buy something like that mug, and to banter with Crowley a little about it. Crowley burrowed his nose in the soft flannel of Aziraphale’s pyjama and inhaled deep, chasing his scent underneath the lavender smell of the softener.

It was only some time later that Aziraphale brought back the subject of their oncoming scene. They’d been talking about gorillas for a while, of all things, so Crowley cut himself some slack for not catching up immediately on the change of topic in their idle conversation.

“Have you thought about what we discussed?”

He blinked up at Aziraphale, happily burrowed as he was in the hollow of Aziraphale’s shoulder and busy playing with the plastic buttons of his pyjama shirt.

“Hmm?”

“About what you’d rather not have in our play,” Aziraphale elaborated, in a guarded, hesitant voice that caught Crowley’s attention immediately where words had failed.

Crowley blinked, pulling himself slightly away from Aziraphale’s welcoming body. There was something vaguely relieved in the way Aziraphale let him go, and Crowley realised that Aziraphale liked it better when they had those sorts of discussions without much physical proximity. _Clear heads_, he’d said. Crowley could see how having Aziraphale’s body close enough to touch might distract him enough to give some rather dumb answers, all in all.

“Oh,” Crowley said, in a predictable dazzle of fine intellect. “Well, I thought about what you said. What you like.” A beat, as Crowley swallowed the uncertainty, and forced the honest words out of his mouth. “That sounds... good. I like the way you... handle me. I like feeling a bit helpless. I like following instructions. I think... I think I like surrendering to you. That’s what you like too, isn’t it?”

There was such a soft, desperate tenderness shimmering in Aziraphale’s eyes that Crowley struggled to hold his gaze, instead of looking away.

“Yes. But only if you enjoy it, too.”

“Oh, I do enjoy it,” Crowley blabbered, a smidge too nervous to keep himself in check. “And I don’t mind blindfolds either. Restrains. I think... I think I’d like to try those, at the very least.”

Aziraphale seemed to ponder over his words a little before carrying on, the same careful note ringing in his soft voice.

“Have you ever done anything like that before?”

“Not... exactly. Got tied up once and blindfolded a couple of times in my twenties, but never like this.”

Crowley remembered well enough those silly, half-arsed attempts at exploring a more adventurous side of sex, and how they’d been disappointingly underwhelming, and all in all a rather daft waste of time. Both his mate and he hadn’t been able to stop giggling, and had eventually given up on that useless kinky stuff to get off in more straightforward ways. Crowley had an inkling that there wouldn’t be much giggling involved, when Aziraphale pulled out the ropes. But who knew, their intimate encounters had turned out to be surprisingly fun.

There was something shining bright in Aziraphale’s eyes, some sort of purposeful spark. Crowley realised that he had absolutely no idea about what Aziraphale was thinking of his confessions, but the quiet attention focused on him spurred him on.

“It was just, you know, a bit of horseplay,” Crowley added, feeling silly for some reason, and awkward, telling this man who had been in _fetish clubs_ about that time after the Pride when one of his mates had tied him to the bedpost with his own feathered boa. The glitter had stayed on the sheets for _days_. “I was young, and reckless. I never really thought about what sort of power I was giving to my partner.” He swallowed, scratching his nape with nervous fingers. “After I figured exactly what it meant, being that sort of helpless... well. When you realise that you know close to nothing about the bloke who’s taking you home, you think twice about letting him do certain stuff to you.”

That sharp attention softened, as Crowley’s blabbering came to an end, and he realised with a little shock of surprise that Aziraphale was _relieved_.

Well. Aziraphale _had_ given Crowley a few hints here and there that no matter the soft, gentle exterior, he was a bit on the jealous side when push came to shove. It wasn’t such a huge leap to assume that he would be glad to know that Crowley hadn’t shared certain experiences with anyone else but him.

Aziraphale’s voice was a purr wrapped in velvet, when he spoke up again.

“I see. Anything else?”

“Well. I’m curious about the toys, to be honest,” Crowley shot back, his answer only partially intended as a quip. He _was_ curious, very much so. He’d always liked to have toys used on him, however sparingly that had happened in the past, and he had an inkling that Aziraphale’s collection included more interesting pieces than the old neglected purple dildo Crowley kept in one of his drawers and never used. “I’m starting to suspect you are hiding all sorts of naughty stuff in this flat of yours.”

He wiggled his eyebrows, startling a laughter out of Aziraphale.

“Oh, my sweet, innocent darling,” Aziraphale sighed. “You have no idea.”

“I’ll have you know that no one _ever_ called me innocent,” Crowley bit back, rather offended. Just because Aziraphale was, well, quite a lot more experienced than him in a very few selected fields of life, it didn’t mean that he got to be condescending.

Crowley’s peeved tone did very little to quench Aziraphale’s amusement, but he did try.

“I’m sorry if I’ve offended your jaded sensibilities,” he said, trying to sound serious and failing miserably. Crowley huffed at the laughter hiding in his voice, but he wasn’t angry, not really. It was just difficult to find his footing sometimes, when half the things he was experiencing were brand new to him.

A tender touch on his cheek brought him back from his fit of pique. Aziraphale had sobered up during that short spell, and his eyes were wide and very intent as they studied Crowley’s face.

“What about boundaries?” he asked, with a pointed, gentle voice.

Crowley frowned a little, hesitating to put a meaning to the word, lest he was going to say something ridiculous again.

“Boundaries?”

“Yes. Things you really do not wish to experience.” A beat, as Aziraphale pulled his hand away from Crowley’s cheek. “Have you thought about those?

Crowley blinked, trying to gather his thoughts. Aziraphale had talked about that sort of stuff the time before, but Crowley had been too excited about being tied up and blindfolded while Aziraphale had his wicked way with him, as he liked to put it, to spare the subject more than some fleeting attention.

“Oh,” he mumbled, trying to take time. “I, well, I’m not sure...”

“Would it help if I went first?” Aziraphale offered, quite obviously privy to the struggle going on in Crowley’s head. It should’ve been a bit vexing, yet Crowley was nothing but grateful as he passed the ball back to him.

“I... yes. It would.”

Aziraphale’s smile was soft as he stared at Crowley’s face, something close to adoration shining in his eyes.

Crowley wondered if that was how he looked, too, as he watched Aziraphale. A besotted fool. They were too old for that, and yet. And yet.

“Very well,” Aziraphale sighed, after a beat. “Hard limits first.”

“Hard limits?”

“Boundaries that are not ever to be crossed.”

That made sense.

“Oh, I see.”

“To me, a hard limit is inflicting any sort of pain that exceeds some mild spanking,” Aziraphale explained, in a clear, almost stern voice. “I will not agree to play with an intoxicated partner, either by drugs or alcohol, and I do not want human fluids, except from saliva and ejaculate, to be part of our scenes. That includes blood, and any play involving blades or generally injuries more dangerous or long-lasting than a few marks. I will also not play with fire or electricity.”

It took Crowley a moment to process Aziraphale’s little speech. His knee-jerk reaction had been wondering which sorts of people would ever _think_ about getting that stuff mixed up with sex, but the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. He was reeling with it, with the thought of being burnt or cut or electrocuted, and yet he could see how pleasure would be easy to find in that kind of play. It was a bit strange, realising that he knew on a superficial level that those things could be easily linked to sexual gratification, and yet being shocked to the core when the concept was expressed out loud in words.

His Victorian ancestors would’ve been so proud.

“Alright,” he said, after a moment of silence that he feared had been quite long. “Yeah. I don’t think... I don’t think I’d want any of that stuff either.”

Just because he _could_ imagine what people might take from all that, it didn’t mean that he was dying to try it out on his own skin. Let alone the fact that the very last thing he wanted was to make Aziraphale feel like he owed him something, like it had happened in that club. Crowley had an inkling that while Aziraphale was well aware of his own limits and knew not to cross them, he would consider the option if that would make Crowley happy, just as he had for that submissive from so long before. He would protest and try to talk him out of it and give some very stern ultimatums, but eventually he would cave, and hate himself for it.

Crowley was startled to realise exactly which sort of power he yielded over Aziraphale, and horrified at the prospect of abusing it. He vowed to himself that he would never, _ever_ ask the man something that he was uncomfortable giving. A fierce protectiveness was burning in his chest, and he would’ve reached through the distance between them and held Aziraphale close, if he hadn’t resumed talking.

“Soft limits... well,” Aziraphale carried on, in a more pensive tone. “I don’t really like humiliating or scaring my submissive, but I could be amenable to try, if required. The same goes for punishment. It can be rather rewarding to me, in a few specific settings, but as a rule I’d rather spoil my partner than punish him. And while I enjoy wrapping my hands around my submissive’s throat, I am not really comfortable with any sort of breathplay. That is,” Aziraphale elaborated, after a glance at Crowley’s confused frown, “choking, or generally reducing or cutting off my submissive’s air supply. That’s more of a hard limit than a soft, I guess, but I could be persuaded to try. If that’s truly something you want.”

There was a rather obvious uncertain note, fluttering in his voice, that did nothing but confirm Crowley’s suspicions. Aziraphale didn’t like it, but he would try, if Crowley asked. It made Crowley want to cry, without even knowing why.

“That’s... well, that’s everything I can think of, right now,” Aziraphale added, something uncharacteristically sheepish in his voice, as though he felt guilty in some way about having limits, and the more he talked about them, the more old shames drifted to the surface. “Any sort of conventional sex, of the kind we’ve been enjoying so far, is obviously more than welcome.”

Crowley took a deep breath, trying to dispel that odd mood and to think clearly and carefully about everything Aziraphale had told him so far. He knew that it was a rather important talk they were having, but even more crucial than that, it was something that was making Aziraphale suffer. And Crowley could only protect him if he knew what hurt him, if he knew what to steer clear of. Everything was new and uncertain to him right then and there, but if their relationship progressed (if time didn’t crush it under its merciless heel), a moment might come where Crowley would be the one asking for more, and Aziraphale could be very easily persuaded to dive in deeper waters than he meant to. If that day was to come, Crowley would do well to remember this conversation, and never ask of Aziraphale things that he couldn’t give him, but that he would feel compelled to if only they made Crowley happy.

“I don’t mind having your hands on my throat, I think I rather like it, actually, but being choked is not really something I want to try,” Crowley answered slowly, measuring his words. “And I didn’t know conventional sex, as you put it, was something we needed to discuss. It’s a big yes, though. For the record. Anything we’ve done so far, really.” A short break. “I’m not sure about punishment. I need to think about it. It’s just...”

“Yes?” Aziraphale encouraged him, when Crowley failed to finish his sentence.

Crowley swallowed around the lump in his throat, and pushed through. Aziraphale had bared his soul to him more than once, and he deserved the same honesty.

“I’ve never actually _tried_ pain during sex. Well, a few bites, a couple of swats here and there, but I don’t think that some rough play is what you mean. You mean pain for the sake of pain, or, well, in a more purposeful way than what I’ve had so far, and I’m not... I’m not sure.” A beat, as Crowley tried to make order in his scattered thoughts. “When I think about punishment, I have these... pictures, in my mind, of someone wilfully, purposely debased. I wouldn’t mind trying some, ah, spanking, per se, but I don’t think... I don’t think I’d enjoy being humiliated. Stepped over.” Crowley blinked, feeling the thought coalesce slowly into his mind. “I don’t _want_ that. I don’t want to be made to feel like I’m nothing, a thing to be used and thrown away, rubbish on the side of the road.”

He swallowed hard, feeling oddly, painfully vulnerable, as a shiver that wasn’t pleasurable at all ran down his spine.

The silence hung heavy for a moment, then Aziraphale lifted his hands, cradling Crowley’s cheeks in his palms as though he was handling something impossibly dear.

“You are my precious darling,” he whispered, swiping his thumb across the bony arch of Crowley’s cheekbone. “Why would I ever treat you like that?”

It felt like something unravelling in Crowley’s chest, a knot being pulled free by the excruciating tenderness of Aziraphale’s soft voice. He looked down, because it was impossible to bear the weight of Aziraphale’s blue eyes, and felt Aziraphale scoot closer, his arm loop around Crowley’s thin waist as he pressed their bodies together.

“That’s what you like, don’t you?” Aziraphale murmured into his ear, so very tenderly. “Being praised, being cherished.”

It was too much. Crowley felt both like bolting away and burrowing closer, the conflicting instincts fighting for a foothold in his shuddering mind.

“Yeah, well, maybe...” he grumbled, just as Aziraphale cupped his cheek and placed a tender kiss to the bridge of his nose.

“Nothing to be embarrassed about, my dearest,” Aziraphale whispered into his skin, every word a delicate brush of lips. “I enjoy cherishing you. You are worthy of praise. My sweet, perfect Crowley.”

It felt as though all the air had whooshed out of his lungs. Crowley struggled for breath, feeling once again close to tears, and he pressed his shaking body against Aziraphale almost hard enough to hurt. For a moment, he craved him with such a violent ache that he felt it boiling in his blood, like gasoline, burning its way under his skin. He craved him even if they were so close he couldn’t rightly tell where he finished and where Aziraphale started, he craved him the way animals do, without thought, without reason, like a beacon burning in the dark.

_I love you_, he thought. And he would’ve said it, too, if his mouth hadn’t felt stuffed full with all the cotton in the huge fields of India, his body strung too high to bend to the will of his singing, frazzled nerves.

_I love you_, he thought, and there was no fear in the thought, only that burning, violent longing.

Aziraphale held him through it, through the bristling silence, until Crowley’s rattling bones stopped shaking, the feeling receded, leaving him empty and unbearably tired. He barely felt it when Aziraphale lowered him down into the pillow, and his eyes were already closing as he pressed his face in the soft, safe space under Aziraphale’s chin.

“I love you,” Crowley whispered, like a secret, against Aziraphale’s skin.

“I love you too, my sweet boy,” Aziraphale sighed, holding him close with impossible tenderness. “Of course I do. My dearest, my sweetheart. My darling Crowley.”

Crowley let out a breath so deep it felt as though he’d been holding it for years on end, for more ages than he could count, and as a deep, silent peace washed over him like high tide, Crowley drifted into a dreamless sleep.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For your entertainment, a true monster of a chapter, to make up for the slight delay in my usual weekly schedule. It wasn’t supposed to be so long, but things sort of went sideways, and here you have it. I truly hope you will like it <3  
Buckets of love, as usual, to [uponwhatgrounds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uponwhatgrounds/pseuds/uponwhatgrounds) for gifting me with two (TWO!) utterly gorgeous [pieces of art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24507106) for my last chapter. You are a wonderful human being and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

_I love you._

Crowley startled awake, the memory lapping at his thoughts like the tide, soft and rustling.

He opened his eyes. The room was dipped in darkness, the lights coming from the outside as pale as a ghost. London never really slept, but there was this moment, between four and five in the morning, when it was too late for most of the night people to stay out and too early for most of the daily workers to get up, in which the city was almost quiet. Not silent, not really, but with a delicate hush spread over its narrow streets and old houses like a blanket.

There was a soft weight pressing down his shoulder. Crowley bent his neck slightly, until his chin rested on a cloud-like tuft of white-blond hair and he could feel the warmth radiating from the scalp underneath onto his own skin.

_I love you._

It felt a bit surreal, and yet dramatically mundane, having said those words out loud. He hadn’t dissected the concept nearly enough in his mind, and yet off he’d gone, his mouth getting there before his brain could catch up. But it was true, he knew it was. He’d always known. Now Aziraphale knew, too. Was it that bad, after all? If there was someone deserving to know that he was loved, that was Aziraphale. And Aziraphale loved Crowley _back_.

That was the strangest, oddest thing of all. And yet, Crowley had known it in his bones, right then and there. He’d known what was to come before Aziraphale even opened his mouth.

_I love you too._

Crowley had never said that out loud, even if he’d thought it before, once or twice. And he sure as hell had never heard it said back to him. Perhaps his mother had, but she’d been dead for way too long to be anything but a shapeless shadow in his mind, and Crowley had no memory of her saying anything at all.

He lifted his hand, stroking Aziraphale’s cheek ever so tenderly. His head was resting on Crowley’s chest, his breath deep and slow, but he stirred at the touch. Crowley pulled his hand away. He hadn’t meant to wake him up, to disturb his slumber, but soon Aziraphale was pressing the bridge of his nose under Crowley’s jaw, a deep sigh brushing the sensitive skin of Crowley’s neck, making him shiver.

“Is everything all right?” Aziraphale mumbled, shifting his limbs to hold Crowley even more tightly. “It’s too soon to get up. Surely.”

Crowley chuckled softly.

“It’s...” A quick look at his phone. “Almost five o’clock. Yes. Too soon.”

“What are you even doing awake at five o’clock?” Aziraphale grumbled with obvious displeasure, rubbing his nose against the ridge of Crowley’s jaw. “Go back to sleep.”

Crowley hummed under his breath, gently stroking Aziraphale’s soft hair. The touch seemed to appease Aziraphale, somehow, and he relaxed against Crowley’s chest, breath slowing down.

“I love you,” Crowley said again, to taste the words on his tongue, to deconstruct them in his mouth until they yielded the key to their magic.

Aziraphale huffed against the portion of Crowley’s chest left naked by the low cut of his vest, raising goosebumps.

“I love you too, you daft man,” he mumbled. “Now go back to sleep.”

Crowley didn’t really fall asleep again after that, but he let himself drift, light and hushed and serene in a way that hadn’t happened to him in a long time, until it was time to get up and face the world once more.

* * *

Aziraphale had a string of early shifts, during the following days, which meant that they didn’t get to see much of each other. His meagre half-hour break precluded spending lunch together, and he wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about spending the night with Crowley, when he had to wake up at the crack of dawn. Crowley had taken that unwillingness a bit personally at first, until Aziraphale had rather tortuously admitted that he liked to sleep in after a thorough shag, and he wasn’t likely to forego sex if Crowley was to share his bed.

Crowley had found the entire affair rather amusing, and teased Aziraphale a little about his irresistible charms over the phone. He’d ended up almost talking him into a nice bout of phone sex, until Aziraphale’s heartfelt yawn had disrupted the mood entirely, and Crowley had let him go with a chuckle.

The evening had ended with a slow, teasing wank nevertheless, as Crowley lay on his bed and replayed the highlights of his favourite naughty times with Aziraphale while idly pulling at his cock. He’d come with a deep, shuddering sigh all over his chest, and spent quite some time after aimlessly fingering his loose foreskin and fondling his tight hole and perineum, riding the highs of that helpless oversensitivity and imagining Aziraphale doing that for him.

Aziraphale was such a patient man, when he cared to be. Crowley wondered with a spike of undiluted hunger in his guts what it would feel like, being played with for hours on end. He had swallowed tight at the thought, skin tingling, spent cock twitching. He had ended up idly touching himself until he’d started to grow hard once more, and by the time he was pulling again at his aching cock he’d had two fingers up his arse, thighs splayed wide enough to hurt. He’d come with a quivering wail to the image of Aziraphale gently fucking his arse with a plug, the penetration as shallow as the press of his own fingers from that wretched angle, but the width thick enough to force his rim to stretch over and over and over at every push and pull.

Their weekend together had been set to begin on Saturday morning. Aziraphale wanted them to have breakfast together, possibly to get Crowley nicely fed before moving on to more strenuous activities. The thought of what those activities might be had kept Crowley on edge through the entire week, vaguely aroused and deeply distracted, to the point that even his work, which normally didn’t require much concentration to begin with, had started to suffer. He’d begrudgingly admitted that he’d do well to think once again with his brain instead of his prick when he realised he’d been working on the same sentence for over three hours, if six words chosen at random and capped with a period could be even classified as such.

Crowley was all sorts of giddy and wired up as he drove into town, that Saturday. He wasn’t sure how long he’d be staying with Aziraphale, and in a spark of uncharacteristic bravery he’d watered his plants and packed a bit more stuff than usual. He knew that Aziraphale was going to start the following week with a late shift, and if things look promising, he’d told himself that he would at least try to ask to stay another night. It wouldn’t harm to be prepared, after all.

He was a bit early, as he walked the pavement up to the entrance of _Heavenly Delight_, and Aziraphale was nowhere in sight. There was no point in denying how eager he was, how he’d missed Aziraphale during the week and which sort of curiosity he harboured for what was to come. He could feel electricity dance on his skin, like statics. The sight of Aziraphale strolling leisurely towards him did nothing to help the matter, nor the private, satisfied little smile quirking his lips as he came closer and subtly brushed Crowley’s hand with his fingertips.

The shop was rather full, so late in the morning during the weekend, but Aziraphale managed somehow to get them a secluded table and a reasonable speedy service. He looked lively and almost as giddy as Crowley felt, happiness bubbling close to the surface and popping into little bursts of sparks. He chattered about work and Dostoevsky and Tchaikovsky and dolphins, for some reasons, and the oncoming Christmas holidays, which were driving the students (and subsequently the library staff) up the wall.

Crowley had written some gossipy drivel during the week, which was the opposite of interesting, but he’d had something that wasn’t quite an interview with a nice fellow who was seemingly busy with some repair works at the train station in Paddington and who had turned out to be the engineer in charge of the operation, and had some rather interesting opinions to share about the dismaying state of a few sections of the Tube. Nothing that Beelzebub would ever consider worth publishing between a rather provoking picture of a model in a bikini and the latest scandal in the glossy world of barely known starlets, but it had Crowley thinking all over again about what it would be like, to write something that held some meaning. It was nothing new, that hopeless, almost furious yearning, but there was something novel to it this time, like a question mark hanging after a neat row of periods at the end of a sentence. Something a little less angry, a little less bitter.

Dangerous thoughts, all in all. Thoughts that Crowley wasn’t ready to share, as of yet. Besides, he was quite happy to sit and listen, as Aziraphale’s fluttering hands and bright eyes pictured a wild new world for his benefit only.

Midday had already come and gone, by the time they walked out of the shop. December was still in its early days, stuck in that uncomfortable, chilly phase between wet autumn and frigid winter, but it was dry enough outside, even if the sky was heavy and overcast. Aziraphale looked warm and cosy in his sweater vest and woollen coat, and Crowley was unable to say no when he suggested a quick walk in the park to breathe some fresh air before heading home. Crowley stuck his hands in the pockets of his coat and walked by Aziraphale’s side through the throbbing streets of London, the iron tip of Aziraphale’s umbrella marking their steps. They went to Green Park, for a change, a stone’s throw away from St. James’s and a bit quieter. The wind was starting to pick up as they strolled, and Aziraphale had to push his fedora down on his head rather hard to avoid losing it to some tree.

Crowley normally loved those strolls of theirs, but by two o’clock, he was about to slither straight out of his skin. He could feel himself literally vibrate out of nerves and anticipation, distracted and curious and unbearably turned on. He was struggling to follow Aziraphale’s usually delightful chattering, mind drifting, body buzzing. He felt almost as if Aziraphale was reaching deep into his skin and plucking at some tight bundle of nerves, making them sing, which was preposterous, since the subject of sex hadn’t even been broached yet and the man had barely brushed his hand once or twice.

At his fourth failed attempt at leading a successful (or at least two-sided) conversation, Aziraphale slowed down into a halt. Crowley hadn’t expected that, and kept on for a couple of extra steps, before realising that Aziraphale had strayed behind. Crowley stopped walking and turned around, meeting Aziraphale’s bright, sharp eyes.

“Are you all right, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, covering the small distance between them and brushing his gloved fingers across the back of Crowley’s hand. “You seem... distracted.”

Crowley shrugged. He was ill at ease, all of a sudden, and regretted having left his glasses in the car. He wasn’t sure which words to use to say that he had goosebumps on his forearm at the thought of what was to come, or how nervous and excited he was. He was half-hard and chafing, his tight jeans rather unsympathetic to his predicament. He’d been half-hard for quite a while, now.

“’m fine,” he grumbled, then added, after a short hesitation: “Can we go?”

He realised entirely too late how much like a petulant child he’d sounded, and ducked his head, trying to hide the mortified, angry blush that he felt rising to his cheeks. But hiding wasn’t that easy, when Aziraphale wasn’t in the mood to allow it. Crowley felt the brush on his hand turn into a delicate hold, and Aziraphale tilted his head to meet Crowley’s eyes. He looked serious and entirely too focused, as he searched Crowley’s face.

“Are you nervous, darling?” he murmured, the soothing lilt of his voice tender like a touch.

Crowley shrugged, unwilling to admit to it but loathing the idea of hiding or outright lying. They were past that. _He_ was past that.

“Yes. A bit.”

Aziraphale’s bright stare turned into a frown, his grip on Crowley’s hand tightening.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, my dear.”

“But I want to,” Crowley protested, forcing the rest out of his mouth. “It’s just... nerves. This waiting, it’s... difficult.”

The frown smoothed out on Aziraphale’s brows, but the intent look stayed. He was studying Crowley with that unwavering focus he wore sometimes, and Crowley felt his skin ripple in a shiver at the scrutiny, guts twisting, craving the attention and growing uneasy under the weight of it at the same time.

“You’re not much for delayed gratification, are you?” Aziraphale asked, with a pointed, purring voice that sparked a shiver down Crowley’s spine.

“Is this what we are doing?”

“Not exactly,” Aziraphale sighed. “I thought that a gentle push would work better than plunging you head first in freezing waters, but yes, I was making us both wait a little, working up a bit of anticipation.” He licked his lips, so quickly Crowley almost missed it. “Well, I was mostly making myself wait. I didn’t realise how deeply this was affecting you, too. I’ve been remiss, and I’m sorry.”

“Is it... something that you like? Dragging it out?”

“At times.” A small pause. “I’m not always this patient, but I wanted to savour the moment.”

“Oh.” Crowley blinked, thinking about what to say next. The path they’d chosen for their stroll was quiet, but not empty, and suddenly he wanted to be alone with Aziraphale more than he’d ever wanted most things in his life. But not yet. “I hadn’t realised we were... waiting for something. I’m not used to it. My encounters are usually more... straightforward.”

Aziraphale hummed softly. His hold on Crowley’s hand was light, but he was surreptitiously stroking Crowley’s knuckles with his thumb–a slow, soothing, repeated touch. Like a lullaby.

“Do you like it?”

Crowley should’ve seen that question coming. And yet, he was caught unaware, unsure on what he was supposed to answer, to think. Did he like it? Not really, but then again, he didn’t _not_ like it either. He could feel the pull of it under his skin, like an itch that he couldn’t scratch. Maddening, and burning. Like spirits, vodka or whiskey, poured straight down his throat.

“I don’t know,” he answered, low and unsteady. “But I’ve been thinking about it the whole week, and now I’m just... I can’t wait much longer. It’s too much.”

It felt silly, out loud, like a child throwing a tantrum, but it was the honest truth. And it seemed to reach Aziraphale, somehow. His eyes were wide and sharp as he searched Crowley’s face, that sort of sharp they seemed to take when they were intimate, when Crowley folded under his pressure.

It should’ve been obvious, really, but Crowley couldn’t avoid being startled by the realisation that Aziraphale was turned on as much as he was. There was a shining quality to his eyes, a dusting of pink on his soft cheeks. Hunger lurking in his gaze.

“You have?” he asked, so softly that Crowley had to lean a little closer to hear him. “Been thinking about it?”

Crowley swallowed thickly. Aziraphale’s hunger was resonating with the tension under his skin, like a matching note.

“Yes. Couldn’t think about much else. Terrible week, ‘twas.”

“Did you touch yourself? Thinking of me, thinking of what I was going to do to you?”

They were almost close enough to kiss, their voices low and hushed. There wasn’t a soul nearby, but even if the path had been crowded, Crowley doubted that anyone would’ve been able to hear them at all.

“Yes.”

“What did you do?”

The air seemed to be thicker than honey, all of a sudden. Crowley shifted on his feet, the pressure of his jeans almost unbearable on his hardening cock. He felt light-headed, almost dizzy. Hazy, as though he was floating on his feet. The only point of contact between his drifting mind and the world was the friction of coarse jeans against his cock and Aziraphale’s grip on his hand.

“Stroked my cock. Fingered myself. Nothing... fancy.”

Crowley licked his lips. His mouth felt as dry as the desert, stuffed full with cotton. His head was spinning.

“How many times?”

There was something deep, almost bristling in Aziraphale’s voice. Something vaguely feral, like a rustle in the underbrush.

“How many...? You mean exactly?”

“Yes.”

Crowley sucked in a breath, shallow and quivering. He was struggling to get air into his lungs, even if the day was cold, almost bracing. He was sweating under his coat. He could feel it, his skin rippling in goosebumps, shivers cascading down his back.

“Ah... once Monday evening. Twice on Tuesday. Then Wednesday. Once under the shower on Thursday. Twice yesterday, but I went on touching myself for a while after.” His voice sounded almost gravelly, even if he was practically whispering in Aziraphale’s ear by now. “Thought about you, touching me. Over and over and over. Not stopping, even after I came. Talking to me.”

“Talking to you,” Aziraphale repeated, voice like a growl, his hand shaking a little where it gripped Crowley’s. “Pouring sweet, filthy whispers into your ear? Telling you how good you were, how lovely, coming undone for me, letting me do all those dirty things to you?”

Crowley whimpered at that. He couldn’t help it. He whimpered softly into the shade of Aziraphale’s fedora, shivers racking his body, and that seemed enough to tip the scale.

“That’s it,” Aziraphale declared, stepping away from him just enough to suck in a deep, ragged breath. “We’re going. Now.”

Aziraphale wasn’t normally very keen on public demonstrations of affection, but Crowley barely had the time to register the shift in the mood before being unceremoniously towed along the path like a ragged doll, his hand firmly ensconced in Aziraphale’s stocky palm. He followed on unsteady feet, but he didn’t call Aziraphale to ask him to stop, to slow down, anything that wasn’t getting home as soon as possible unconceivable.

He wasn’t sure how they got to Aziraphale’s flat, only that they were stepping through the threshold and slamming the door shut behind them. Then Aziraphale had him flat against the wooden panel, plastering his body against Crowley’s until there wasn’t an inch of space between them. Crowley felt how hard he was, even through the layers of his clothes and coat, and gripped his hips desperately as Aziraphale slammed their mouths together and kissed him deep.

“Turn around,” Aziraphale hissed against his lips, before giving Crowley just enough space to do that. Crowley felt too big, too clumsy for his own body as he turned around in a flurry of limbs, awkward and hazy and untethered, tottering on his feet, getting tangled in his coat, slamming his knees against the door. Some of Aziraphale’s old tenderness was gleaming through the urgent hunger burnt into his every single touch, since Crowley found himself carefully helped until his cheek was pressed against the door, and gentle hands slid his coat and scarf down his shoulders.

“Stay there,” Aziraphale ordered, voice softening a little as he pressed up against Crowley’s back. “Be good for me, darling.”

He could be good for Aziraphale, Crowley thought. He felt a bit light-headed, too inconsistent to stay within the cage of his flesh. He pressed his palms against the cool wood of the door and sucked in a quivering breath, shudders trailing down his spine. He felt as though he could pour through the pores of his skin any minute, as though he could just float away, tethered to the ground only by Aziraphale’s weight pressing him against the door and the touch of Aziraphale’s hands groping for his belt. He seemed to find the buckle easy enough, and soon he was opening Crowley’s jeans, the release of pressure against Crowley’s aching cock a blessing. Crowley groaned at the feeling, the dampness of his breath reflected back at him by the thick, cool wood.

Then his jeans were yanked down to his calves, and the weight of Aziraphale against his back was gone. Crowley had very little time to feel disappointed and bereft about it, since soon after bare hands were prying his legs open, and the shock of a warm tongue tracing the inside of his thigh shot like a ribbon of light up his spine. Crowley groaned against the door, deep and shuddering, his body alive with the feeling of stocky fingers buried into the scant meet of his sides, and Aziraphale’s clever tongue licking his inner thighs over and over and over until he was dripping with it, cock impossibly hard, balls heavy, breath coming in ragged moans as he scrambled ineffectually at the door.

Crowley was shaking with need, by the time Aziraphale pulled himself up to his feet, and a steady dribble was leaking from his cock and splashing onto the floor. He felt torn apart by the pitiless pull of that impossible hunger, violently turned on and in desperate need for a release, body strung up tight like a cable about to snap. He almost sobbed in relief at the feeling of Aziraphale’s weight pressed hard against his back, Aziraphale’s lips tender on his nape, and it took him a moment to identify the nudge of a stiff cock between his thighs, pushing up against his balls. He sucked in a breath between his teeth and followed Aziraphale’s lead, as he urged Crowley to press his legs together, and moaned deep and bristling at the feeling of that thick cock thrusting into the narrow damp space between his thighs once, almost experimentally. Then it pulled back and pushed forward again, and again, and again, picking up the pace, as Aziraphale buried his face in Crowley’s hair with a broken groan and secured an arm against his middle, keeping him there, where he wanted, pressed between the door and his body.

Crowley struggled to breath, air coming in wet, thick huffs as Aziraphale slammed him against the wooden panel over and over, his clothes whispering against the naked skin of Crowley’s arse, his cock a steady rub against Crowley’s aching balls.

“My darling, wonderful Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed against his nape, the first words he’d said since he’d unbuckled Crowley’s belt. He sounded wrecked, voice low and stuttering, delicate and vulnerable like a paper crane. Crowley forced a shaking hand off the door and pushed it down, until it clasped over Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale gasped at the touch, a wet, shivering sound, and promptly sank his teeth in the sinewy meat of Crowley’s shoulder, nicely showcased by the low cut of his henley. Something sharp skittered through Crowley’s nerves at the pressure, something stuttering between pain and pleasure, and Crowley bowed his back, hips snapping into nothing.

Electricity was winding up his spine, his flesh, his nerves, sparking and rabid and violent, and Crowley sobbed into the door, nails sinking into Aziraphale’s hand.

“I’m sorry, my darling, please, let me,” Aziraphale panted, snaking his free hand between Crowley’s legs as he licked a stripe up Crowley’s neck, and closing it around Crowley’s leaking cock.

Pleasure bloomed like an orchid behind Crowley’s eyelids at the touch, white and all-consuming, and Crowley struggled to remember to keep his thighs pressed together as he fucked his cock into Aziraphale’s fist, over and over, in snapping, desperate thrusts. There was no finesse to it, no thoughts, only animal instinct, as they moved against each other in a desperate quest for friction. Crowley slammed his fist against Aziraphale’s door as pleasure crested under his skin, as Aziraphale bit and sucked on the bruise surely forming on his neck, as Aziraphale’s hard cock leaked in the tight space between his legs, the world coiling up tighter and tighter under his skin until it snapped free. Crowley came with a wail into Aziraphale’s fist and all over his door, heart stuttering in his chest, fist impacting against the hard wood again and again as he shuddered through his release. Aziraphale wasn’t far behind, and soon he was coating the inside of Crowley’s thighs with come. Crowley felt it trail down his legs, warm and viscous, as Aziraphale stuttered a few more ragged thrusts before slumping against Crowley’s back, lips still pressed against his nape like a kiss.

Aziraphale was the first to move, way too soon after their orgasms. Crowley had been listening to his panting breaths slowly calming down like to a distant song, uncomfortably aware of the come trickling down his legs but way too content with the soothing, warm weight against his back to consider jostling him, and mumbled in protest when he felt Aziraphale slowly peel himself away from Crowley’s sweaty back. Aziraphale soothed him with a gentle kiss on his neck, right where a bruise was probably blooming, and stroked gently the curve of his arse.

“Don’t move, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you.”

The words soothed something bristling deep under Crowley’s skin, and he deflated, letting the door bear his weight as he slumped against the wooden panel. He listened vaguely to his breath normalising, his heart slowing down from its manic racing, and by the time he was sucking air in something a bit more sedated than a string of panting gasps, Aziraphale was back.

“So good for me, my darling,” Aziraphale purred, his hand trailing down Crowley’s spine as he knelt behind him. Crowley twitched helplessly at the feeling of gentle hands pushing his legs apart, and heard Aziraphale sigh as a tissue was pressed against the bony side of one of his knees.

“So much for delayed gratification,” Aziraphale grumbled, as he cleaned Crowley down to his calf and up his thigh, before switching to the other leg.

Crowley let out a soft, winded snort at that.

“I forgot my bag,” he said, mind clearing up a little as his heart calmed down. He looked down at himself, his cock hanging mostly limp between his legs, his jeans and pants crumpled at his feet. There was a nice streak of come painting Aziraphale’s door, like a messy glob of white paint. “Got your door all dirty. ‘m sorry, angel.”

“Nonsense, darling,” Aziraphale said, rather resolutely, as he carefully pulled up Crowley’s pants. It felt a bit too intimate a thing to do, but Crowley let him, a pang of the usual prickling, embarrassing vulnerability he experienced every time he was fussed over trailing like a shooting star under his skin. “I am the one who should be sorry. I jumped you before we could even make it to the bed.”

“No complaints, here,” Crowley mumbled. Aziraphale struggled a bit more to drag Crowley’s jeans all the way up, but he wouldn’t be deterred, and eventually succeeded. Then he pulled Crowley against his chest, winding his arms around Crowley’s waist, and Crowley let him bear his weight as Aziraphale buttoned up his jeans and buckled his belt.

“Here, all done,” Aziraphale murmured against his ear, affectionately stroking his belly. “Let’s sit down for a moment, then we can go get your bag.”

Crowley didn’t protest as he was gently pushed towards the couch, and sat down obediently as Aziraphale wiped his door clean. As he watched him work, Crowley realised that not only Aziraphale was still perfectly dressed, but he was still wearing his blasted _coat_. The thought sent a frisson of heat down Crowley’s spine, and he clenched his hands in a futile attempt to disperse some of that tension as he observed Aziraphale retrieve his fedora and his scarf from the floor, where they had quite obviously been carelessly flung, and hang them together with his coat. His tartan umbrella was also lying on the floor, but Aziraphale left it where it was, choosing to join Crowley on the couch instead.

Once there, he wasted no time in pulling Crowley in his arms, and Crowley curled up in the loving embrace, letting Aziraphale hold him for a long moment. The smell of his skin was wonderful so up close, sweat and the sandalwood scent of his aftershave mingling deliciously in the sweet divot under his jaw. Crowley pressed his nose there and inhaled deeply, as Aziraphale scratched his nape with blunt, manicured nails.

“It seems I got... carried away,” Aziraphale sighed, after a while. He looked not quite chagrined about that, and hilariously peeved at his apparent inability to regret wonderful animal sex pressed against the door. “I’m not nearly as patient as I would like to be, I’m afraid.”

“Hm. You got all hot and bothered, back at the park. What was it? Hearing about me touching myself, or hearing that I was thinking about you while I did it?”

“A bit of both, perhaps. But not just that, not exactly.” A deep breath. “I asked you what you’ve done, how often. And you answered.”

Crowley blinked at those words, then frowned. It didn’t seem anything particularly earth-shattering to him, but he had the distinct impression that he was missing something there, like some sort of coded message that apparently only Doms could decipher.

That was simply not fair. Crowley wanted in on the fun, too.

“Yes. I don’t follow.” He shifted in Aziraphale’s embrace, looking up at him. There was a pink flush high on his cheeks, and Crowley realised that it wasn’t only vague embarrassment that was making him blush. “It’s not a big deal to me. But it is to you. Why?”

Aziraphale threw him a short glance, before sighing deeply.

“It’s not what you said, not... exactly,” he repeated, obviously struggling between reticence and honesty. “It’s... intimate. I asked to know, and you answered truthfully to me. For a moment, it felt...”

“Yes?” Crowley encouraged him, when Aziraphale’s voice failed him.

Aziraphale cleared his throat, then looked away.

“It felt almost as if I was in charge of your orgasms.” A beat, as Aziraphale looked away, something vaguely haunted in his face. “It’s nothing, truly. Just a bit of a fantasy. I wasn’t really prepared to handle it, and, well. I’ve been thinking about today too, for a while. I guess I got a little... overexcited. I knew it wasn’t that, it just, it felt nice to... ah. Pretend, perhaps. No, that’s not the right word. Imagine. Yes. Then it felt a bit too nice. You know the rest.”

Crowley considered his words for a moment. He’d never really thought about it that way, but it made sense that Aziraphale would find the entire quandary somewhat titillating. He liked handling Crowley, he liked being in charge of him. It stood to reason that he would find the thought of controlling him even when they weren’t together interesting at the very least.

And it wasn’t like the thought didn’t have its merits, after all. Crowley felt a shiver trail down his spine as he replayed in his mind that crystallised moment in the park, charged like a battery.

“I could tell you,” he proposed, uncertain about whether that was the right thing to do but encouraged by the wide-eyed stare he got for an answer. “Every time I touch myself. Tell you when, and how. What I think about. How many times I come. Would you like that?”

Aziraphale swallowed once, twice. He seemed dumbfounded at the offer, completely off-balance. Then came that yearning, almost unbearably vulnerable gaze, the same gaze he’d given Crowley when he’d been told that Crowley might actually want what Aziraphale wanted, too. It broke Crowley’s heart, the tentative hope shining bright in those eyes. It made him want to hold Aziraphale tight and slash with teeth and nails everyone who would ever dare as much as raise his voice against such a lovely, sweet man.

“I would like that very much, darling. But you don’t have to. It’s not necessary, not really. It’s just...”

“Something that you’d like.” Crowley curled up closer, pressed the bridge of his nose under Aziraphale’s jaw. “It’s alright. I think I might like that, too.”

“You would?”

Crowley thought it over one last time. Aziraphale deserved nothing less than a thoughtful, honest answer, and Crowley was going to do his level best to give it to him.

“I think I would. Yes.” He pictured himself lying in his bed, phone on his pillow, as he confessed to Aziraphale in hushed whispers what he’d done, all the filthy things that had been flitting through his head as he pulled at his own cock. He swallowed thickly, shuddering at the pricking feeling of vulnerability that came with that little fantasy. “I think it would work quite nicely for me, too.”

He felt Aziraphale’s trembling, sharp intake of breath sink deep into his skin, like a thorn.

“All right, then.” A short beat, as Aziraphale pressed his lips to the crown of Crowley’s head, almost reverently. “It’s hard to believe, at times, that you are real. It still feels so strange that I’ve found you.”

“Same here, angel,” Crowley murmured, then pulled away, a bit too much truth for his comfort. “Let’s go get my bag. I have a feeling that it might be one of those now-or-never sorts of moments.”

Aziraphale chuckled at that, sweet and bright, like a bell. Then he let Crowley go and got on his feet.

“You might be right, darling. We’d better get a wiggle on. We still have a scene to discuss, and we won’t be going anywhere for a while after we start.”

“A _wiggle on_?” Crowley protested, as he pulled on his coat and followed Aziraphale out of the door. “Who on earth even talks like that anymore?”

* * *

It took them less than half an hour to reach Crowley’s car and walk all the way back, and only because they’d stopped along the way at one of Aziraphale’s favourite bakeries to buy a bag of fresh-out-of-the-oven biscuits. Crowley’s beaten travel bag was dropped rather unceremoniously by the door as soon as they crossed the threshold, while Aziraphale’s biscuits were propped with a good deal more care on a silver tray and precariously balanced on a few books cluttering the desk. Then Crowley was left to his own devices while Aziraphale turned on the heating and pottered away in the kitchen, and he took it as an invitation to hang his coat and scarf and kick away his boots, before settling comfortably on Aziraphale’s battered sofa and eventually curling up under his hideous tartan blanket. It wasn’t exactly the dashing picture he’d hoped to offer Aziraphale as he walked out of the kitchen with a chine-bone cup and a mug filled to the brim with steaming tea, but that blasted flat was colder than his bloody fridge.

Odd, that he hadn’t felt chilly in the slightest with his bare arse in the air while Aziraphale was busy licking his thighs.

“Here we go, darling,” Aziraphale chirped, handing Crowley his mug and placing the tray with the biscuits on the couch between them, “some nice tea will warm you straight up.”

“Bourbon would also do the trick,” Crowley griped, but without much bite. He twisted around just enough to find a reasonably stable pile of books within reach, and set his hard-won sunglasses right on top.

Aziraphale tutted at him.

“I don’t play with inebriated partners. I told you. Rather clearly.”

Crowley felt a pang of guilt at the words. That had been, how had Aziraphale put it?, a hard limit of his. The quip about bourbon hadn’t been meant seriously, but Aziraphale had every right to feel a bit defensive about that sort of stuff. His wishes had been gladly trampled over in the past, after all.

“’m sorry, angel,” Crowley mumbled. “Wasn’t thinking.”

“Oh, no, my dear boy, it’s quite all right.” A bright, sweet smile. “Now drink your tea, eat some biscuits, and then we can talk a little about our scene.”

The prim voice with which Aziraphale’s instructions had been doled out startled a laugh out of Crowley. He tried to hold it in, but it was difficult to control himself, when Aziraphale was staring at him with an arched brow.

“I’m sorry, angel,” he eventually managed to bite out with a chuckle. “It’s just... well. When you told me you meant to do such filthy things to me that we’d need to discuss them thoroughly beforehand, I would’ve never thought we’d be doing it over _tea_ and _biscuits_.”

He got a snort for an answer.

“I’m truly sorry that the background is not fancy enough for your delicate sensibilities, darling,” Aziraphale bit back, voice dripping with haughty, disdainful outrage.

Crowley laughed even harder at that, spying a smirk on Aziraphale’s lips. The smirk turned into a full-on, delighted smile when Crowley popped a biscuit in his mouth, and Crowley quickly took a sip of tea, scalding his tongue in the process, to hide a little how lovely it felt to please Aziraphale. Not that he really _needed_ to (it was hardly a secret anymore), but old habits were difficult to get rid of.

“So,” he said, a bit awkwardly, clearing his throat, “I ate some biscuits, drank my tea. We can talk now.”

“You ate one biscuit and barely tasted your tea, but fine. We could get started, at least,” Aziraphale pointed out, bringing his own cup ever so primly to his lips. “Let’s cover the basis, first. A scene, a proper scene, should have a definite beginning and a definite end, which are meant to be discussed in advance. During this time span, I am going to tell you what to do, and you are going to obey.” A beat. “We can discuss different dynamics, of course, but that’s my personal preference.”

Crowley didn’t have any issue whatsoever with that, on the contrary, but he was curious.

“Different dynamics?”

“Well, there are scenes in which the actual point is the submissive refusing to obey and being brought to do just so, but I dislike both my authority being defied and forcing my partner to do something, even if agreed beforehand.” Aziraphale looked down, something vaguely uncomfortable flitting briefly in his face as he shifted ever so slightly. “This is usually when punishment comes into play, and one of the reasons I’m not overly taken with the concept.”

Aziraphale had also said that punishment _could_ be rather rewarding to him in some specific settings, but Crowley decided that that was not the moment to ask for details. One thing at a time.

“Sounds good to me,” he said instead, realising only after a beat how misleading his words could be and elaborating: “Ah, obeying, I mean. I told you, I like being told what to do. Your personal preference works for me.”

Aziraphale studied him for a moment longer, before nodding slightly.

“Very well.” He took a deep sigh. “Now, listen closely. This is important. Obeying to my requests does not mean that you do everything I tell you to do, even if you do not want to or you are not ready to do it.”

“Doesn’t that sort of defeat the purpose of the whole thing?” Crowley asked, rather confused. He never really considered the idea that Aziraphale might make him do something he didn’t really care to try, and kind of assumed Aziraphale would simply _know_. One look at those bright blue eyes, fixed rather urgently into his own, made him quickly reconsider.

“No, Crowley, it doesn’t. Listen. We have talked about limits, and we are going to discuss the scene before we start, but there are things that you might not be aware of how they are going to impact you until you are right in the middle of it. If that happens, you can and _must_ stop the scene. You don’t endure, you don’t soldier on. You stop.” A beat, as the frantic light in Aziraphale’s eyes turned harrowed, turned haunted. “You remember what I told you, don’t you? About what happens, when you keep going instead of admitting that it’s too much for you to take? There is nothing wrong with having limits, with establishing boundaries. There is nothing wrong with saying no to something you don’t enjoy.”

It sounded a bit too much like a practiced speech, something that Aziraphale had told himself in the mirror over and over, hoping that one day it would ring true. Crowley felt the bottomless sadness of that thought brush his flesh and burrow deep into his bones, and he reached out, stroking Aziraphale’s jaw with gentle fingers. Aziraphale leant into the touch, allowing Crowley to cup his cheek in his palm as he closed his eyes with a deep, unsteady sigh.

“I don’t think I could bear the thought of hurting you, darling,” Aziraphale said, in a low, soft whisper. “You must tell me if it’s too much, if you need to stop. Please.”

“Alright, angel,” Crowley answered, tender and soothing. “I will.”

“I believe you.”

The naked trust in those blue eyes made swallowing impossibly difficult, as Aziraphale lifted them in a long, loving gaze. Then he shifted slightly, breaking the moment, and Crowley took his hand away.

“There are different ways to do that,” Aziraphale carried on, once again brisk and a bit businesslike. “We could use a safeword, of course, which is the most common way to end a scene. But since I’m not planning on including consent play in our scenes, if you tell me to stop, I’ll stop.”

A question had to be apparent in Crowley’s expression, since Aziraphale took a small breath and added:

“I don’t feel... comfortable continuing a scene if my submissive is protesting against it, even if it’s not real. Carrying on while my partner begs me not to is... upsetting, to me.” A flicker of something in Aziraphale’s eyes, before he looked away. “I’m sorry, I should’ve probably mentioned that earlier. It’s one of my soft limits. We can talk about it, of course. If that’s something that you’d like.”

_If that’s something that you’d like._

Crowley frowned at how familiar that sentence was starting to sound. It seemed to pop up at will every time Aziraphale was discussing his limits, as though he felt the need to include a loophole in his own decisions. Crowley had already realised how keen Aziraphale was to make his partner happy, how far he would push himself to do just so, but it felt even more jarring, even more worrying, to hear the obvious disregard Aziraphale held for his own boundaries right after he’d all but begged Crowley to respect his own.

Crowley almost spoke up about it, but lost his nerve at the very last moment. It was a bit too soon for that, probably. But even if he wasn’t the poster boy for healthy discussions of deeply-seated problems, he could and would try to be better for Aziraphale. He filed the issue away for later perusal and smiled brightly at him.

“I don’t think I could pretend I’m not into whatever it is we get up to. ‘m not that good of an actor.” He took a sip at his tea, watching Aziraphale surreptitiously relax in front of him, his muscles losing tensions by increment. “Yes is yes and no is no. Easier that way.”

“Yes, I think so, too,” Aziraphale promptly agreed, with almost palpable relief. “I still think we should use a streetlight system, though. It’s the simplest way for you to let me know that we are approaching treacherous waters, and to proceed with caution.”

“A streetlight system?”

“Yes. If I’m unsure about your state of wellbeing, I’m going to ask you for a colour. Green is for go ahead, yellow is for slow down, or more generally a warning that limits are being reached, and red is to stop the scene entirely.”

“Ah. Hence the streetlight.”

“You’re of course more than welcome to say the words yourself, without being prompted, if you feel the need to.”

“Seems easy enough.”

A small hesitation, covered by a quick sip of tea. The bone-china cup was returned to its saucer with barely a clatter, as Aziraphale picked a biscuit with deliberate care.

“There may be, ah, instances where you won’t be able to talk. In such cases, we’ll discuss other ways for you to end the scene beforehand. You will _always_ be able to put a stop to it in any moment, whether you may be able to talk or not.”

Crowley lifted a brow at that.

“Are you planning on gagging me, angel?” he asked, unsure on how he felt about it. He needn’t have worried about it, though.

“Not really,” Aziraphale chuckled. “I’m quite fond of your lovely voice. But I do plan to use your mouth.”

Which sounded titillating to say the least.

“Do you, now?”

“Hm.” A quick, almost coy glance of those blue eyes from under thick lashes. “That brings me to the scene I had in mind for today, actually.”

For a moment, Crowley could only blink at him, liquid heat pooling into his belly as he struggled to swallow. He’d gone from interested to turned on so quickly he felt almost as if an electric rod had been brought to his body, lighting him up from the inside out.

“You mean to fuck my mouth, angel?” he ground out eventually, cock growing painfully hard in the tight cage of his jeans. He could feel his heart picking up the pace, his skin buzzing with excitement.

Aziraphale tilted his head slightly, a flush brightening his cheek.

“If you’re amenable.”

“I am,” Crowley was quick to answer, “very, very amenable.”

“Good.” The word, spoken in a molten, almost purring voice, trickled down Crowley’s spine like honey. “I think the living room would work better for this scene. My bedroom is rather small, what with all the space taken up by the bed.”

“Sounds good,” Crowley rasped.

“I’d like for you to kneel naked at my feet as I take your mouth. And we’ll use this in place of a safeword.”

Crowley was a bit too distracted to focus entirely on Aziraphale’s words, and he stared for a long moment at the red rubber ball Aziraphale was holding out to him as though he’d materialised it from nowhere with some sort of magic trick. He didn’t protest when Aziraphale placed it gently in his palm, but it took him an embarrassing long while to realise that it was heavier than it looked, with a hard core. He shook his hand a little, and he was awarded with a silvery chiming.

“There is a bell inside,” Aziraphale offered, when it looked quite evident that Crowley was struggling a little to work past the kneeling-naked-at-my-feet bit. “You drop it, and I’ll stop. Is that clear?”

Crowley had to swallow twice before he could manage to get something past his lips.

“Yes.”

“Very good,” Aziraphale crooned, voice brushing feather-like across Crowley’s skin. “Now, let’s talk about aftercare. I was thinking about holding you on the couch until you feel well enough to move on, but if you have other ideas, or you’d like to establish a fixed amount of time...”

“Can we, could we do what you did last time?” Crowley interjected, skin burning at the thought. “When I... ah. That evening. The ruined one.”

“I don’t remember any ruined evening in the time we’ve spent together,” Aziraphale gently rebuked him, “but I think I know what you mean. You want me to keep my clothes on while I hold you, naked.”

“Yes.”

“Well.” Hunger bristled in Aziraphale’s blue eyes, as he stared straight at Crowley with a dusting of pink on his cheeks. “I can certainly do that.”

Crowley shivered at the pressure of that gaze. He set the rubber ball on the couch and handed Aziraphale his mug, still half-full with rapidly cooling tea.

“Alright, then. Should we start now?”

“Hmm, just another thing first, darling,” Aziraphale answered, taking Crowley’s mug and placing it on the desk. “I’d like to inspect you, before I use your mouth.”

“...inspect me?”

“Yes.” Crowley stared at him blankly as Aziraphale squirmed, rightly _squirmed_ on his seat. It took Crowley barely a flicker of a gaze to confirm that Aziraphale was hard in his pressed trousers, his erection tenting the taut fabric obscenely. “It’s... well, it’s pretty self-explanatory, I think. If you’d rather skip that part...”

Crowley wasn’t entirely sure about that, but the concept had his stomach drop in a wave of arousal so thick he almost felt it on the back of his tongue, and there was something hopelessly enticing in witnessing how violently turned on Aziraphale was at the mere thought. He might as well try. He wasn’t entirely averse to the notion, after all, and they could always move on if he didn’t like it.

“I think I’d like to try that, yes,” Crowley said after a beat, vaguely aware that he was rubbing his sweaty palms against his jeans. He stopped, cupping his bony knees instead.

“Very well,” Aziraphale said, clearing his throat. “If you feel uncomfortable, you just... say so. Use your colours, or just plain tell me. We can skip that part and move on to the next bit, or stop the scene entirely and do something else, or just leave intimacy alone for a while. It’s entirely up to you.”

Crowley nodded. He felt oddly light-headed, body alive in a cascade of sparks. He’d had a rather wonderful orgasm not one hour before, but he felt as though he hadn’t come in ages, as though he hadn’t had a hand on his cock for epochs on end.

“Alright.” He licked his lips. They felt parched, all of a sudden. “I understand.”

“Good,” Aziraphale said, sounding curiously breathless. “We can start, then.”

“Yes.”

A beat, as Aziraphale took a deep, steadying breath.

“Be a dear, then, and take off your clothes. Leave them on the chair. Then stand in the middle of the room and wait for me. Take your time. I’ll be right back.”

Crowley blinked, overwhelmed for a moment by what felt like an impossible amount of instructions for him to remember and follow. Aziraphale had already stood up, and was looking down at him, eyes sharp and bright, like those of a predator hiding in the bushes.

“Are you all right, my dear?” he asked, when Crowley made no move to get on his feet. His hand felt impossibly soft against Crowley’s cheek, and he relaxed against it, eyes fluttering close.

Aziraphale clucked his tongue at him.

“I asked you a question, sweetheart. If I ask you a question, you answer. With words. We talked about this, remember?”

It felt like words spoken in a far-off past, buried under the sands of time. But yes, Crowley remembered. He felt hazy, disjointed, slowly drifting, but he remembered.

“Yes.”

“Well?”

A brief burst of panic, as Crowley realised that he’d forgotten the question he was supposed to answer.

“What was... what was the question?” he asked, anxiety climbing at the thought of disappointing Aziraphale, but the man merely smiled at him, soft and affectionate.

“Are you all right, darling?”

Crowley blinked.

“Yes.” A beat. “Can you... tell me again? What I have to do?” he asked, a bit shyly. He felt like he should be embarrassed about it, about how easily he’d been overwhelmed. His heart was beating fast, his brain struggling to keep his thoughts from scattering.

“Of course, sweetheart. Come up here.” Aziraphale pulled him up on his feet, and Crowley let him, shrugging the blanket off his shoulders as he went. He tottered a little as he stood, and splayed his hands on Aziraphale’s chest for balance. “Here we go. Now, I’m going to the kitchen for a moment. I’ll be right back. You only have to call me, if you need me, and I’ll be here in a heartbeat.”

Standing was helping, a little. Crowley found it a bit easier to concentrate on Aziraphale’s words. He nodded.

“Alright.”

“_Very_ good, darling,” Aziraphale purred, tracing with his fingertips the outline of Crowley’s arm and making him shiver. “Now. While I’m gone, I want you to take off your clothes. Slowly. And then I want you to put them on the chair. That chair. Can you do it, for me?”

Crowley took a deep, shuddering breath. He could.

“Yes.”

“My darling boy,” Aziraphale crooned, lovingly stroking Crowley’s cheek. “I’m so proud of you. I’ll be back in a moment.”

The sweet words helped to quiet Crowley’s bristling mind, as Aziraphale gently pulled away from his groping hands and picked up their dirty cups. Crowley watched him disappear in the kitchen with something a bit confused and a bit forlorn murmuring in his blood, then remembered his task and haltingly forced himself to follow the instructions he’d been given.

He felt slow, clumsy, as he pulled the stringy scarf off his neck and looped it carefully across the back of the chair. The blasted thing fell twice before he could finally secure it, but irritation felt a bit dulled in that vaguely dreamy state, an itch just beyond the reach of his fingertips. His henley followed, just as slowly, and then he was bare-chested, with only a silver chain hanging from his neck. He wasn’t sure if that was included in the clothes category or not, but Crowley took it off anyway, suddenly annoyed with anything touching his skin. The flat was still too cool for comfort, but it was a far-off sort of thought, a vague understanding that the low temperatures were responsible for the goosebumps rippling the naked skin of his forearms. He didn’t feel particularly cold, though. He felt as though a fire was burning under his skin, warm and lovely, and clothes were only a nuisance that had to be eliminated as soon as possible. His jeans and pants took a bit longer to be dealt with, and his socks didn’t seem amenable in the slightest to being disposed of, but eventually he was standing naked on the thin rug of Aziraphale’s living room, feeling a bit silly and a bit distracted, as though different touches were stroking his skin.

“Very good, my darling boy.”

The voice, soft and full of dense, syrupy approval, startled him. He whipped around, seeing Aziraphale standing in the doorway, holding two glasses of water in his hands. Crowley had no idea how long he’d been there, watching silently, but the thought was enough to send a shiver down his spine. He couldn’t help but stare, as Aziraphale walked slowly into the living room and put the glasses on the desk. There was a calculated measure to his movements, a care. Not too slow, not too fast. He picked up the silver tray with the biscuit and returned it to its precarious balance on the desk, freeing the couch. Only then he turned his full attention to Crowley, standing naked in front of him and watching a bit warily Aziraphale’s every move.

There was a scorching heat in those eyes, as Aziraphale raked his gaze slowly up and down Crowley’s body. He was hard and blushing, a deep colour that disappeared under his collar. His white-blond hair looked almost otherworldly against the backdrop of that burning skin, his eyes wide and bright.

“I’ve wanted to do this for such a long, long time,” Aziraphale whispered, clasping his hands behind his back and walking around Crowley ever so slowly.

He was obviously taking his time, assessing every single inch of exposed skin. Crowley felt the weight of his gaze like a touch, swiping down his back, curling around the swell of his arse, brushing his inner thigh, fondling a nipple, thumbing the length of his cock. The shock of cool air had made his growing erection wilt a little, but he was fully hard now, foreskin peeled back to reveal the angry-red tip, wet and straining. Aziraphale’s gaze lingered on it, and for a bristling, shuddering moment, Crowley thought that he would finally shatter that unbearable focus and reach out to touch him, but he didn’t. His hands twitched behind his back, as he circled Crowley once again, like a shark, but he didn’t touch him.

Knowing that Aziraphale was behind him didn’t help much, but at least allowed Crowley the space he needed to take a shallow, quivering breath. He could feel his heart thumping wildly into his chest, a dull ache mirrored in his heavy balls and aching cock. He was shivering, though he couldn’t say if with nerves or anticipation or both, yearning for a touch in a way he’d never quite yearned for anything else in his life before. He felt exposed, vulnerable, stomach churning and some sort of unwilling, rabid arousal trickling lower and lower. He felt spellbound, waiting for a touch to shatter the moment, to spoil the magic, but he found himself unprepared for it, when the touch came.

He was so tense that he almost jumped out of his skin, when he felt the gentle brush of fingers across his back.

“Sssh,” Aziraphale whispered, from somewhere behind him. He’d placed both hands on Crowley’s hips, a strangely comforting touch, as though he was holding him together. “Breath, my sweet darling. You’re doing so well. Are you all right to go on?”

Crowley almost said yes out of habit, but he hesitated, allowing Aziraphale’s touch to steady him.

“Could you, ah, say something?” he asked, a bit haltingly. “The silence is a bit... unnerving.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale easily agreed. He stroked Crowley’s flanks, then moved his hands up, spanning the width of his back. “Such a wonderful creature I caught myself. So beautiful. So sweet.”

Crowley closed his eyes, feeling the tenderness of the touch as Aziraphale’s hands shifted lower, cupped his arsecheeks. He wasn’t surprised to feel them part, but he almost shuddered out of his skin when he realised that Aziraphale had knelt behind him, using his thumbs to stretch his hole. Getting a good look at the furled skin.

“_Aziraphale_,” he bit off, breathless and shuddering, as Aziraphale traced the rim with his thumb and hummed under his breath.

“Ssh, my sweet boy. You’re so lovely to look at, so sensitive.”

He nudged the tip of his thumb past the rim, making Crowley keen. He was shivering so hard that standing was a struggle, breathing was a struggle, skin tingling and painfully alive, heart like a drum in his chest. He was dripping on the carpet, and hoped wildly that Aziraphale wouldn’t mind.

Then he felt Aziraphale’s left hand slip lower, stroking the tender skin of Crowley’s inner thigh while the right was still busy playing with his rim, and tensed even further under the touch.

“Angel, you shouldn’t... I’m all sorts of sticky, down there,” he gasped, feeling Aziraphale’s broad palm running down his calf, his stocky fingers circle Crowley’s ankle like a bracelet, then move up, thumbing the inseam of Crowley’s knee.

“I know,” Aziraphale merely answered, a subdued, soft chuckle, “I made you that way.”

Which left nothing to discuss, because it was true. Crowley closed his eyes, allowing himself to feel the gentle touches, the soft whispers, to let that tortuous vulnerability sink into his bones, igniting sparks of electricity that danced along his spine. Aziraphale went on exploring his legs, one at a time, slowly and at leisure, until he was satisfied. Then he stood up, swiped Crowley’s back once more with his palms, traced the shapes of his shoulder blades, cupped the balls of his shoulders, thumbed the bumps of his spine just under the sweet divot of his skull. Pressed a finger to a sore spot, likely the bruise that Aziraphale had sucked into his skin. The pressure made Crowley’s cock twitch, hole clenching around nothing. Crowley sighed in the chilly air of the flat when he felt Aziraphale’s fingers trail down his arm, the back of his hand, as Aziraphale walked once again in front of him.

“My poor boy,” Aziraphale sighed, and Crowley didn’t need to open his eyes to know that he was staring at his leaking cock. But even if Crowley knew what was to come, he still couldn’t hold in a groan when he felt that broad hand circle his shaft, light and so very gentle, thumb playing with the tight foreskin. “Does it hurt, my darling?”

“A little,” Crowley answered, lifting his chin when Aziraphale nudged him, sighing at the feathery touch of fingers down his throat.

“Should I stop this and take care of you, instead?” Aziraphale crooned, caressing Crowley’s shoulders, exploring his chest. He thumbed a nipple until it hardened, then pulled gently at it, dragging a shuddering keen out of Crowley’s throat.

“I thought, ah, I thought we had a scene planned out,” Crowley panted, feeling Aziraphale’s touch across the flat plane of his belly, a finger playing with his navel. He nearly wailed when a firm hand nudged his thighs wider apart, and a wide palm appraised the weight of his aching balls.

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale sighed, as though he’d completely forgotten about the rest of their scene for a moment. It made Crowley realise with a deep shudder just how much Aziraphale liked touching him, _taking care_ of him, winding him up and up and up and then gently bringing him down. Playing with him. He liked it even more than the thought of feeding him his cock, which was... interesting. Or it would’ve been, if Crowley hadn’t been so tightly wound up, painfully turned on, with Aziraphale’s manicured hands tenderly stroking his cock and fondling his bollocks.

Crowley groaned, a desperate, dismayed sound, when Aziraphale pulled away.

“None of that, my sweet boy,” Aziraphale tutted at him, sounding out of breath. “I promised you a scene, didn’t I. It wouldn’t do for me to be greedy.”

Crowley forced his eyes open, and watched with hazy curiosity as Aziraphale picked a cushion from the couch and dropped it at his feet. Then he reached for Crowley, grasping his hands, and carefully helped him down. Crowley was still shifting about to find the best spot for his knees, when Aziraphale pressed the red rubber ball into his palm.

“I’m going too fast, too deep, too hard, you drop this,” he said, slow and clear. “I’ll stop. Immediately. I won’t be mad, I won’t be disappointed. I promise.”

Crowley stared up at him. Aziraphale looked huge like that, towering over him, casting his shadow over Crowley’s kneeling body. He looked like he could go up for miles and miles, taller than a tree, taller than the Shard. He looked impossibly far away, for a moment, and Crowley reached out with his free hand, grasping his pressed trousers. It felt comforting, to know that he was close enough to touch.

“Crowley? Use your words, please.”

Oh, right. He’d forgotten to answer. Again.

“I’m sorry,” he pushed out, a thread of uneasiness, of shame burning on his tongue. He realised vaguely that he was drifting, the way he tended to, sometimes, when they played. Subspace. “I was... ah. Distracted. Yes. If it’s too much, I’ll drop the ball.”

“_Very_ good, my darling boy,” Aziraphale cooed, making him shiver. “Now, settle down. Don’t move. Close your eyes, relax your jaw. Let me do all the work.”

Crowley could do that. He sat back on his hunches, allowing his muscles to loosen up, to let go. He felt the touch of Aziraphale’s hand on his cheek, and closed his eyes, basking a little in it. Aziraphale’s thumb traced the outline of his mouth, and Crowley sighed softly against the pad, parting his lips.

“You are stunning. My perfect, beautiful boy,” Aziraphale sighed, playing with his lower lip, pushing his thumb slightly between Crowley’s teeth. Crowley gasped softly at the praise, at the feeling, but didn’t move. He had a vague memory of Aziraphale wanting to use his mouth, and besides, he felt too relaxed to do much but let him. He relaxed his jaw enough to let Aziraphale rub his thumb against the tip of his tongue, press the pad against the line of his teeth.

Then the touch was gone, and Crowley heard the sound of a zip being lowered, the telltale rustles of clothes being pushed aside.

He opened his eyes, slowly and laboriously, as he felt the tip of Aziraphale’s leaking cock pressing against his parted lips. There was a broad hand wrapped around the hard shaft, both looking impossibly huge so up close.

“Good God,” Aziraphale panted, from somewhere above the clouds, “you are magnificent, my darling.”

Then he cupped Crowley’s nape with his free hand, and slowly, carefully, slipped the head of his cock into Crowley’s welcoming mouth.

It felt _wonderful_. Crowley remembered how thick Aziraphale had felt, the way his mouth had to stretch to accommodate the girth, but this was different. He didn’t have to think, to coordinate his hands, his mouth, his tongue, the bobbing of his head. He didn’t have to do anything but relax, let Aziraphale regulate the depth, the speed, how much, how little. Crowley felt his eyes roll in their sockets, lids snapping shut as he groaned around Aziraphale’s flared cockhead. Being mindful of his teeth was just an afterthought for Crowley by now, and he didn’t have to think about much at all as Aziraphale pushed in just a little more, before pulling out.

It went on for a while, the gentle push and pull. Crowley could hear Aziraphale’s laboured breaths booming right above his head, louder than the thumping of his own heart. It had slowed down somewhat, in that sort of odd, rarefied peace, as thick as syrup, and Crowley felt his heartbeat in his temples as his cock twitched between his legs, forsaken and forgotten, hard and leaking and not so pressing anymore.

Aziraphale was just about halfway into Crowley’s mouth, when Crowley let go of the rubber ball. He barely had the time of wonder where exactly that soft chiming was coming from, that Aziraphale was pulling out, leaving him empty and bereft. Crowley whined at the loss, cracking open weary eyes, and blinked up at Aziraphale’s soft, concerned gaze.

“Are you all right, darling?” he asked, stroking Crowley’s jaw ever so tenderly.

Crowley swallowed thickly, trying to focus.

“Yes, of course.”

“You dropped the ball. Do you want me to stop?”

Crowley blinked again, trying to make order in his scattered thoughts.

“I did?” he stammered. He looked down, finding that his hand was indeed empty, and the ball had rolled away. Funny. He hadn’t even realised he had loosened his grip. “Oh. I let it go. Didn’t mean to. ‘m sorry.”

“Don’t be, sweetheart,” Aziraphale crooned, bending down to pick it up. His hard, leaking cock bobbed obscenely between his legs as he did so. “Give me your hand. Here.”

Crowley blinked at the red ball in his palm, once, twice, as though he wasn’t sure how it had got there in the first place. Then he felt the gentle touch of Aziraphale’s fingers on his face, and looked up, a bit dreamily, meeting Aziraphale’s gentle blue eyes.

“Should I carry on?” Aziraphale asked, wrapping a hand around the thick base of his cock. The tip glistened, wet with precome and Crowley’s saliva, and Crowley felt a punch of hunger in his guts at the sight. Aziraphale sank his other hand into Crowley’s hair, keeping him in place, and suddenly Crowley was very present, and very, very hard.

“Yes,” he choked out, “_please_.”

The pleading, as usual, did the trick. Aziraphale almost gasped in the thick air, and then he was guiding his cock once again into Crowley’s mouth, pushing it deep, deeper than before, as Crowley moaned around its girth. He shuddered at the stretch, at the taste, at the firmness of him, Aziraphale’s foreskin silky on his tongue. He did his best to stay still as Aziraphale set up a gentle, firm rhythm, fucking his mouth in measured snaps of his hips, until his cockhead reached the back of Crowley’s throat. Aziraphale left it there for a moment, his pubic hair tickling Crowley’s nose, his scent heavy and delicious, then let up. Crowley took advantage of the respite to suck in a breath through his nose, then Aziraphale was once again buried deep into Crowley’s throat, fingers tangled in his short hair.

“You are so good to me, my dear boy, so wonderful,” Aziraphale babbled as he picked up the pace, fucking Crowley’s mouth in earnest. “Taking me so deep. My gorgeous Crowley. What a vision you are, kneeling naked at my feet.”

It was too much. Crowley was uncomfortably, painfully hard, and no matter how punishingly he sank his fingers into his own thighs, that pitiless need wouldn’t let up. His cock was aching, his balls were aching. He tried to be good, to weather the storm, but each panting word coming from Aziraphale’s mouth was winding him up tighter and tighter.

Eventually, he needed a hand on his cock hard enough to make him drop the ball again.

The response, once again, was instantaneous. The pressure eased immediately, even if Aziraphale was careful at pulling out his cock. Then he was cupping Crowley’s cheek, tender and solicitous, as he peered at his face with feverish eyes.

“Was it too much, darling? Too hard? Too deep?”

Something in those questions, in that breathless voice, pulled a shiver out of Crowley’s skin. He shook his head, sucking in a wet, chopping breath.

“I need to touch my cock,” he gasped. “It’s... I can’t wait, it’s too... too much. Please.”

Aziraphale’s eyes were wide, dark, as he gasped under his breath and stared unblinkingly at Crowley for a long, quivering moment.

“Are you asking for my permission to touch yourself?” Aziraphale all but growled, fingers tightening around Crowley’s hair.

Crowley couldn’t help but shudder at the intensity, the pressure of it.

“Yes...?” he answered, rather tentatively. He hadn’t exactly thought about it that way, but yeah, that seemed to be the case. Aziraphale had told him not to move, and he’d vaguely imagined that wanking would be included in that category. “I guess?”

Aziraphale sucked in a breath, deep and shuddering, as he looked at Crowley with bristling hunger.

“How impossibly perfect you are,” he growled, before bending down, shoving the red rubber ball in Crowley’s left hand. “You can. Touch yourself, darling. I want to see you reach your peak with my cock in your mouth.”

Crowley keened at that, high and shuddering. He couldn’t help it. A wave of arousal so thick it made him dizzy washed over him, as Aziraphale gently coaxed Crowley’s mouth open with the tip of his cock, and pushed inside once more.

The rest went in a blur. Crowley flailed a moment before managing to get his right hand around his hard, aching cock, and then he was pulling at it, almost angrily, screwing the winding pleasure tighter and tighter as relief made tears prick at the corners of his eyes, as Aziraphale pushed his cock all the way in and fucked Crowley’s throat in careful, smooth thrusts. It was so much, the pleasure, the need, the hunger. Everything was so bright, so violent. Crowley moaned and keened around the girth of Aziraphale’s cock, pleasure pooling low in his belly, hot and electric, until it shot up his spine in a toe-curling, mindless orgasm. He barely remembered to keep his jaw slack as he screwed his eyes close and came and came, all over his hand and Aziraphale’s cushion, wave after wave, skin rippling in shivers so violent he had to grip the blasted ball in a death grip to keep himself from dropping it again.

He barely registered the stuttering, forceful thrusts of Aziraphale’s cock down his throat, as his muscles convulsed around the thick flesh. He heard Aziraphale let out a deep, quivering groan, then he felt thick ropes of come coating the back of his mouth. Crowley swallowed around the flared cockhead, without thinking, and mourned vaguely how little he could taste so far into his throat. Then Aziraphale was pulling out, gently, carefully, even as he shuddered through the aftershocks, making sure that he wasn’t being too abrupt, that he wasn’t hurting Crowley. It yanked at something buried deep under Crowley’s skin, that care, that tenderness. Crowley sighed at the loss of Aziraphale’s girth between his lips, then flexed his jaw a little and opened his eyes, trying his best to focus his gaze on Aziraphale’s looming figure.

“My precious boy,” Aziraphale gasped, obviously struggling to get his breath back. “Stay there, darling. I’ll take care of you.”

Crowley blinked lazily up at him, watching with hazy eyes as Aziraphale wrestled his cock back into his pants and zipped up his trousers. His belt was still hanging open, though, as he tottered to the desk to get a handful of tissues and then hurried back to Crowley as though his shoes were on fire. Crowley offered him his come-speckled hand slowly, his muscles heavy and sluggish to respond as though he was swimming in syrup, and Aziraphale carefully tended to his dirty skin until it was clean enough, if still a bit sticky. Then he pulled Crowley up to his feet and propped him up during the short trek to the couch.

Crowley plopped down onto the padded seat with a relieved sigh. He hadn’t realised how difficult it was to be up on his feet, to coordinate his movements. He still felt a bit out of it, his body difficult to manoeuvre, awkward and cumbersome, his throat raw, his thoughts scattered like birds on a beach. He felt himself drifting, untethered. He missed Aziraphale’s touch, most of all. He stared in dazed silence as Aziraphale tied up his belt and kicked off his shoes, before finally joining him on the couch.

“Here we are, darling,” Aziraphale cooed, gathering Crowley’s naked body in his arms and pulling the tartan blanket over his shivering skin.

Crowley curled up in his lap with a sigh, hiding his face in the curve of Aziraphale’s neck and inhaling deeply. He exhaled in a long, shuddering sigh, as Aziraphale carefully tucked in the blanket around Crowley’s jagged shape and secured him against his chest with an arm wound up tight around Crowley’s back.

“Would you like some water, sweetheart?” Aziraphale asked, low and ever so soft. Crowley grumbled under his breath, burrowing even closer into the steady hold of Aziraphale’s body. He felt secure, fenced in by the solid weight of Aziraphale’s arms, Aziraphale’s legs. The faint tickle of clothes against his naked skin did nothing but compound to that feeling, and Crowley pushed his shoulder into Aziraphale’s chest, bunching up a fistful of his sweater vest into his fist.

“Later, angel?” he whispered, feeling too exhausted to move, too weary to open his eyes. He wanted to bask in the wondrous feeling of being held, of being cared for, until the end of the world. “I’m a bit tired.”

A soft kiss pressed against the crown of his head, like a whisper.

“Of course, my darling. Let’s rest for a while.”

Crowley realised vaguely that there was a soft smile lingering on his lips, as he drifted off.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This hiatus lasted far less than I thought it would. Apparently I am unable to leave this story alone, and the more I write it, the more stuff comes up to write. Not only it won’t be done in four chapters, but at this point I just hope I’ll manage to finish it before I hit 300k.  
That said! I can’t even begin to thank you all for the outpours of love showered upon my last chapter. I was so bloody moved. This story is getting more indulgent with every chapter I publish, and it’s such a boost to know that you people are still with me and are actually enjoying this mess. I love you all.  
A particularly heartfelt thank you goes like usual to [uponwhatgrounds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uponwhatgrounds/pseuds/uponwhatgrounds), who gifted me with three (THREE) gorgeous [pieces of art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24507106) for my last chapter. You are an incredible human being, truly.

He didn’t really fall asleep, as the afternoon slowly dragged by. He felt himself tottering on the verge of sleep, lulled as he was by the tender touch of Aziraphale’s hand against his hair, but he never really toppled over, which sat quite well with him. He’d drifted off way too often while being held, and he rather liked the idea of thoroughly savouring the occasion for once, instead of checking out into dreamland. There was such a soothing quality in the way Aziraphale touched him that Crowley felt he could stay like that forever and a day, curled up in his lap, warm and sated and lazy, as Aziraphale traced slow circles across his back and scratched his scalp.

Eventually, however, that hazy, heavy languor started to wear off, and Crowley’s muscles began to protest at the cramped position in which they’d been forced for who knew how long. Long enough for the sun to set, clearly, and plunge Aziraphale’s living room in dusky shadows.

“Are you all right, sweetheart?” Aziraphale asked, feeling him stir slightly into his grasp. Crowley mumbled, rubbing his face against the soft wool of Aziraphale’s sweater vest. He was slowly resurfacing, but that didn’t mean that he liked the idea of losing his perch on Aziraphale’s soft, welcoming body.

“Hmm,” Crowley rasped, voice all sorts of scratchy after having his throat so thoroughly used. “Oh, yes.”

A soft chuckle, as the gentle stroking against his hair resumed slowly.

“I’m glad.”

Crowley didn’t protest when his head was pulled gently off Aziraphale’s chest, mainly because his nape was pillowed on Aziraphale’s palm and a rain of lingering kisses was peppered onto his face. He hummed at the onslaught, luxuriating in the feeling of Aziraphale’s soft mouth pressing onto his forehead, his brows, the apples of his cheeks, his nose, his lips. He felt loose, almost lethargic, and pervasively content.

“What time is it?” he mumbled after a while, amidst a string of long, close-mouthed kisses.

Aziraphale scratched his nape gently, rubbing their noses together for a moment before fishing for his stopwatch. He clearly did his level best to try and catch a glimpse of the tiny hands, but between the thickening shadows and the lazy nuzzling Crowley was distributing between his neck and his chin, it wasn’t long before he gave up on his squinting.

“It’s getting a bit too dim to see properly, my dear. Would you mind if I turned on the lamp on the desk?”

Crowley wasn’t particularly keen on the idea, but the room was darkening rather quickly, and he was getting more and more awake by the minute.

“Sure,” he sighed, hiding his face into the soft space under Aziraphale’s jaw to protect his eyes. The sudden brightness pulled an unhappy grumble from his throat, but he settled easily under the gentle touch of Aziraphale’s hand on his neck. He stayed there, breathing evenly with his eyes closed, while Aziraphale distractedly thumbed the slope of his nape.

“It’s almost six o’clock.”

“Dinner time, you mean,” Crowley chuckled, pressing a lazy kiss under Aziraphale’s jaw. Aziraphale snorted softly, wriggling a little to put his stopwatch back into his pocket.

“Well, I do feel a bit peckish, if that’s what you’re aiming at.”

“Hmm. I guess we should at least try to get a move on, then,” Crowley said, not particularly taken with the concept and not bothering to hide it at all. Aziraphale clutched him more tightly against his chest and kissed tenderly the top of his head.

“We don’t have to move just yet. We can stay here as long as you need.”

“I don’t need it, not really,” Crowley confessed with a sigh, “but I do like it.”

“A bit longer, then,” Aziraphale answered, resuming the gentle petting against Crowley’s hair. Crowley relaxed into the touch, resting his head on Aziraphale’s chest and listening to the regular beat of his heart, as his eyes adapted to the light.

“How’s your throat, sweetheart?” Aziraphale asked, after a while. “Does it hurt?”

“’s doing fine,” Crowley answered, a bit drowsily. “Aches a little, but it’s well used. I like that.”

“Would you like some water? You should drink something.”

Crowley didn’t particularly feel like moving, but the pressing concern in Aziraphale’s voice was difficult to resist.

“Alright,” he mumbled, pulling himself up a bit. Aziraphale didn’t waste a moment, and stretched towards his desk to grab cautiously a full glass. Crowley reached for it with a distinct lack of enthusiasm, but Aziraphale stopped him on his track.

“Let me,” he whispered, eyes wide and studying Crowley’s face intently. The mood had shifted abruptly, and Crowley swallowed at the bristling intensity of the moment.

“Alright.”

He couldn’t look away from Aziraphale’s dark eyes, as a broad palm covered his nape. Aziraphale tipped Crowley’s head back slightly and carefully brought the glass to his mouth. Cool water lapped at his lips, and Crowley let it fill his mouth, refreshing and wonderful, before swallowing it down.

“Not too fast, darling,” Aziraphale chided him, regulating the amount of water Crowley was taking with every sip. He took the glass away entirely after another mouthful and kissed tenderly Crowley’s forehead, holding him against his chest, before allowing him to drink the rest.

By the end of it, Crowley’s eyes had fluttered close, and he was breathing shallowly, body oddly electrified by that pointed care.

He _was_ growing to like being fussed over, no doubt about that. Perhaps a bit too much, if the steady thumping of his heart was of any indication.

“You did so well, my sweet boy, drinking it all up,” Aziraphale crooned, obviously sensing an opening and going for the kill. Crowley shuddered at the praise, nerve endings singing, and pressed his face against that sturdy chest as Aziraphale put the glass back onto the desk. Then those broad hands were back on Crowley, stroking down his spine and gently rubbing his nape, and Crowley slumped against him with a shuddering sigh.

“Did you like it?” Aziraphale murmured, dragging Crowley’s rather unwilling attention back to present.

“What?” Crowley grumbled. “The water? ‘twas alright, I guess.”

“The scene.”

“Oh.” It was a bit difficult to concentrate, with the way Aziraphale was still touching him, loving and slow and lingering, but Crowley was well aware of how important that question was to him. He struggled to gather his thoughts, measuring his words carefully. “I did. I really, really liked it.”

“All of it? Is there anything that you’d prefer to do differently?”

Crowley took his time to think it over. He’d never been questioned about sex before, not like that at least, not like he was expected to say anything other than more-or-less heartfelt appreciation, and that wasn’t just an idle question. Aziraphale deserved a well-thought answer. And recalling the electric vulnerability of being inspected, made to kneel and thoroughly used wasn’t exactly a hardship. Not a hardship at all.

“It was perfect,” Crowley admitted, a bit embarrassed by how dreamily his voice was ringing to his ears. “I loved every moment of it.”

“You were unnerved by the silence.”

Crowley blinked, then frowned. Oh, yes, while he was being inspected. He’d all but forgotten about that. He should’ve known that Aziraphale, however, would remember.

“Yes, I supposed I was.”

“Can you tell me why?”

Crowley hesitated. He was resting his head on Aziraphale’s chest, lazily stroking the soft wool of his sweater, while Aziraphale’s hands hadn’t stopped their roaming across his back. He could feel the heat of Aziraphale’s palms even through the blanket covering his skin.

“I felt a little... lost,” Crowley eventually answered, feeling a bit silly but determined to push through. “I didn’t know if I was doing something... well, wrong.”

A thoughtful hum, vibrating through the thick chest under his cheek.

“It’s easier for you, when you have constant feedback.”

It was such an odd sentence to hear associated to sex, but, well. It was true.

Crowley’s frown deepened at how needy that made him sound.

“’suppose.”

“I see.” A gentle touch against his nape. “I’ll provide more guidance in the future.”

Crowley squirmed a little. He disliked how small, how childish that word was making him feel (_guidance_, as though he was some sort of Regency ward), but the velvety heat trickling under his skin was impossible to ignore.

He sighed, a bit unnerved by his conflicting emotions, and stirred in Aziraphale’s grasp.

“I need a shower,” he announced, when Aziraphale didn’t seem particularly amenable to let him go.

“Are you all right, darling?” Aziraphale asked, stroking Crowley’s cheek with such a tenderness that he deflated, pressing his forehead against the ridge of Aziraphale’s jaw.

“Yeah. Just need a bit to process all of this, I guess. But I’m alright. Truly.” He pulled away, letting Aziraphale search his face while he smiled at him. “I’m _really_ sticky now, though.”

That made Aziraphale chuckle, breaking the roaming intensity of his gaze.

“Fine, I believe you,” Aziraphale said, words sweet and light but ringing true nonetheless. “You go and get cleaned up, while I order something for dinner. Any preferences?”

“Thai? Or Indian. ‘s been a while.”

“Oh, Indian food, that’s a jolly good idea!” Aziraphale answered, endearingly delighted for something so trivial. “Should I order for you as well?”

“Something spicy,” Crowley answered, peeling himself rather unwillingly from Aziraphale’s welcoming body. The sputtering heating system had done its best to heat up the place, but Aziraphale’s flat would never be anything other than lukewarm to Crowley’s sensibilities, and he shuddered when the cool air hit his skin.

“Something spicy,” Aziraphale agreed. “Now hurry up into the shower and get some clothes on. You are positively shaking.”

Crowley couldn’t help but kiss him at that, and one kiss turned into two, then three, and then Aziraphale was forcefully pushing him away when he realised that Crowley was leaching off his body heat and was in fact freezing.

He ended up eating chicken tikka masala at the kitchen table with Aziraphale’s robe thrown over his shoulders, since he’d refused to put up proper clothes after his shower, and would’ve strutted about only in his sleepwear if Aziraphale hadn’t insisted rather pointedly for him to get something a bit warmer on. Crowley had barely refrained from snorting when Aziraphale pulled out a fleece dressing gown, but although the thing was big enough for him to swim in it (while also too short to cover anything south of his knees), and he doubtlessly looked like a plonker swamped in tartan fleece, he had to admit a bit begrudgingly that it was wondrously warm. And even if that hadn’t been the case, the appreciative, heated look sizzling in Aziraphale’s eyes at the sight of his own clothes hanging from Crowley’s lanky frame would’ve been worth the ignominy. Thankfully enough, however, Aziraphale’s shoe size had turned out to be smaller than his own, so his dignity had managed to avoid at least the tartan slippers that Aziraphale had promptly shoved his way when he saw Crowley ready to roam his flat with only thin black socks on his feet.

They stayed perched at Aziraphale’s tiny kitchen table for a while after dinner, sipping Zampa Insigna and talking about anything at all, the sort of talk that had made him love Aziraphale’s company in the first place, rambling and relaxed and delightful in ways that Crowley would’ve been hard pressed to explain. Then Aziraphale decided to take a shower himself, since he was ‘positively filthy’, as he put it, and Crowley was left to his own devices. It was the first time that he’d been left alone to roam Aziraphale’s home without anything pressing to do (showering, getting dressed, dashing away to work), and Crowley found himself exploring a little, picking up books at random and leafing through them, before putting them back carefully where he’d found them. He’d have been glad to help out a little, but Aziraphale had already done their dishes and disposed of the biscuits and glasses left in the living room during their previous activities, and there was nothing for him to do, except perhaps pick up his phone and see whatever other people were up to. But he didn’t feel particularly interested, or particularly curious. He didn’t feel very inclined at all to remember that there was something outside Aziraphale’s flat, as though his obsession wasn’t already bordering on ridiculous.

It was during his idle exploration, however, that he found the telly.

He wasn’t to blame, really, for not having discovered it sooner. It was placed straight in front of the couch, true, but he’d always been rather distracted during his forays in Aziraphale’s living room, and the blasted thing was literally covered in books. Besides, he didn’t think he’d seen a telly big enough to actually have books stacked on top of it for at least a couple of decades, let alone one that seemed plucked straight out of a 1950 movie set.

He was carefully freeing the space in front of the large, glossy screen when Aziraphale came back from the shower. He was wearing one of his hideous tartan pyjamas, in an obvious concession to their lazy evening, and his relaxed gaze turned curious as he took in Crowley kneeling in front of his ancient CRT set.

“Is it still working?” he asked politely, as though that wasn’t his telly, which he presumably owned.

Crowley aimed a disbelieving look at him.

“You don’t know if it works?”

Aziraphale merely shrugged, as he ambled closer.

“If I knew for a fact that it doesn’t, the only sensible course of action would be to throw it away, and where would I put my books then?” Hard to discuss that kind of logic, Crowley mused. “I unplugged it years ago, but all the cables should still be there. I think.”

The cables were, in fact, still there. It took Crowley a bit of fiddling, but eventually he managed to get the thing going, while Aziraphale made a nice cup of cocoa for himself. Then Crowley settled on the couch, cross-legged and with Aziraphale’s dressing gown flapping open around his body like the wings of a rather odd tartan bird, and focused on the only program the poor thing had apparently been able to catch–a rerun of _The Great British Bake Off_ on a rather obscure channel and in a ridiculously poor quality. Aziraphale came back a moment later with his cocoa, and settled beside him with a placid smile on his face. He seemed utterly content, almost seraphic in his absolute satisfaction, and Crowley wasted no time in pressing his back against Aziraphale’s side. Aziraphale wasn’t clearly blissed out enough to miss the sign, and Crowley hummed in satisfaction as Aziraphale’s sturdy arm looped loosely around his waist, pulling him closer to Aziraphale’s warm body.

“What are you watching?” Aziraphale asked, as Crowley settled comfortably against him.

“_The Great British_ _Bake Off_.”

A beat, as Aziraphale followed with an arched brow the conversation between Mary Berry and one of the bakers.

“It seems like a bunch of people busy, well, baking.”

“Yes,” Crowley chuckled, “that would be the point of it.”

“...I see.”

Crowley frowned.

“We don’t have to watch it, if you don’t want to. I just saw the telly, and, well, I thought...”

“It’s fine, darling,” Aziraphale said, pressing an affectionate kiss against his cheek. “I haven’t watched the telly in a long time, so I’m not sure what’s around these days. I don’t mind.”

“If you’re sure...”

“Oh, I’m sure.” A short break, as Aziraphale seemed to think something over, before adding cautiously: “Would _you_ mind if I read a bit, while you’re busy with this baking show of yours?”

“Won’t the noise bother you?”

“Not at all,” Aziraphale hummed, nuzzling his cheek. “And I like having you close.”

“Oh.” Crowley thought it over, a wave of warmth threatening to overwhelm him. He hadn’t thought about what Aziraphale wanted to do during the evening, and had turned on the telly mostly because he was curious to see if it worked, but it felt nice and a little strange to see Aziraphale adapt without hesitation to Crowley’s ideas. Crowley would’ve obviously been glad to turn it all off, if Aziraphale had so much as hinted at something of the like, but that felt... better. Sweeter. “Alright.”

They ended up cuddling on the couch, Crowley lazily watching what seemed to be a semi-final with his head propped up on Aziraphale’s shoulder, while Aziraphale held up his book with one hand and distractedly stroked Crowley’s hair with the other. It felt quiet, subdued. Tender in a lingering, hushed way.

Perhaps it was that, the silence, that made it easier for Crowley to speak up. The proximity, the warmth, made for a strange cocoon, secluded from anything that wasn’t that place, that moment. Crowley was swaddled in Aziraphale’s clothes, surrounded by the scent of his skin. He felt drifting, at peace.

“Angel?”

His own voice sounded soft, almost reedy, in the heavy quiet.

“Hmm?”

Crowley licked his lips. Closed his eyes. The light coming from the telly danced behind his lowered lids.

“I’m not... sure about what I’m doing, you know.”

The hand in Crowley’s hair paused a little in its gentle stroking, then pushed lower, curling around the side of his neck. An aborted shiver bristled down Crowley’s spine, as he felt those study fingers brush his throat ever so gently. It was a prickly, arousing sort of touch, but it felt grounding somehow, subtly steadying. It soothed the tension rising in his jumbled thoughts, and Crowley sighed, allowing the touch to herd him gently into that lingering peace.

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale asked, so very softly. His thumb was tracing idle circles against Crowley’s nape, and after a moment of careful evaluation, his fingers started a gentle stroking motion up and down Crowley’s throat.

Crowley’s skin broke into goosebumps at the touch, as he instinctively tilted back his head to give Aziraphale more working room. He got a pleased hum for his efforts, and the thrilling brush of a manicured fingertip under his jaw, tracing the sharp angle of his chin.

“With this relationship... thing,” Crowley elaborated, trying to keep his head from too obviously lolling back. He could feel the steady support of Aziraphale’s bent arm behind his back, keeping him up, holding him close.

Dry, soft lips pressed against his forehead, silently encouraging him to carry on.

“I don’t do relationships,” Crowley added with a deep sigh, before amending: “No, that’s not exactly true. I’ve never had one before. A proper relationship. I had... regular hook-ups. People I’d fuck repeatedly, at times for years. But they weren’t relationships. They were... sex. I don’t know the steps, here. I just... well. I wanted you to know. In case I stomp on your feet or something.”

His voice had tapered down into a murmur, towards the end, something not quite beseeching chiming softly in the background. Crowley wasn’t sure he liked how raw it made him feel, how exposed, as though his flesh had been peeled off to show his very bones. And yet, it felt wondrously liberating, saying that out loud. Not because it was a particularly hefty secret to keep, but for the forced intimacy of it, offering a piece of himself that he didn’t usually allow people to see. It felt a bit like taking Aziraphale’s hand and bringing it to a place on his body that was usually left alone, deep and dark and personal.

Something twisted into his guts at the blatant eroticism of the comparison, the tight muscles of his hole clenching around nothing. If he hadn’t been so delightfully sated and relaxed, he would’ve coaxed Aziraphale into unfastening the belt of the tartan robe and pushing a hand into Crowley’s pants, touching him, for real, deeply and intimately. His treacherous cock twitched at the thought of Aziraphale’s fingertips rubbing the puckered flesh of his rim, though Crowley was nowhere near to getting hard again.

“Oh, darling,” Aziraphale sighed against Crowley’s forehead, soft and unbearably tender. Crowley felt the gentle whoosh of that breath, the brush of lips against his skin at every word. “I’m not sure what I’m doing here, either. I had relationships, and I had play, but I’ve never had something like this before.” A break, as Aziraphale’s stocky fingers curled around Crowley’s throat. “I _wanted_ it, of course, but I’ve never found anyone willing to be my partner _and_ to engage in this sort of play. I’ve never found anyone like you. And I want you to have my very best. But if I should end up stepping on your feet, too, well... you’ll know why.”

The loose hold around Crowley’s throat pulled a shiver from his flesh, as he struggled to swallow. There was something subtly thrilling, blatantly controlling in being held that way, and Crowley found himself revelling in it, in Aziraphale keeping a tight hold on such a vulnerable spot of Crowley’s anatomy. They had talked about it, and Crowley knew perfectly well that Aziraphale would never cut off his air supply, but offering Aziraphale that kind of control over as basic a need as breathing was... electrifying.

Crowley could feel his heart pick up the pace in his chest, a steady thumping, shivers rippling his skin. He was in Aziraphale’s house, wearing his clothes, surrounded by his scent, and now even breathing was something Aziraphale could restrict at will. It was heady, devastating, that complete loss of power. And yet calming, for some reason, inexplicably soothing.

“Alright,” Crowley sighed, slumping against Aziraphale’s shoulder. He heard Aziraphale’s breath catch in his chest, then he loosened the gentle grasp around Crowley’s throat.

“Well, I’d say we’ve had enough excitement for one day,” Aziraphale murmured, pressing his lips against the crown of Crowley’s head. “Shall we turn in, my dear?”

Crowley hummed in reply, too drowsy and relaxed to consider actually getting up and going anywhere. He missed the touch of Aziraphale’s fingers, and while cuddling up with him in bed was nothing short of delightful, cuddling up with him on the couch also had its merits. He’d closed his eyes a while before, though he couldn’t say exactly when, and wasn’t particularly keen on changing that particular situation.

He forced himself to crack an eye open, at last, as he curled up more tightly against Aziraphale’s welcoming body and pressed his forehead under his jaw. The book that Aziraphale had previously been reading was resting in his lap, his index working as a placeholder.

“What are you reading?” Crowley inquired in a rough, grumbling voice, instead of answering Aziraphale’s question. His lips pulled up in a pleased grin, as a steady hand settled again over his hair. Aziraphale had obviously decided to humour him.

“A collection of Poe’s works.”

Crowley snorted softly against Aziraphale’s neck. Blunt nails scratched at his scalp, eliciting a shiver.

“Gothic tales? That’s... well, that’s surprising.”

“It was the first book within reach. I didn’t want to jostle you.”

Something warm and delicate unfurled in Crowley’s chest at those words. He kissed subtly the soft skin under Aziraphale’s jaw, then nuzzled at whatever was within reach.

“Which story are you at?”

“_The Imp of the Perverse_.”

Crowley blinked his eyes open. Well.

“Sounds suitably titillating,” he drawled, pulling a chuckle out of Aziraphale’s lips. “Read to me?”

“Lazy boy,” Aziraphale grumbled, but he was already turning off the telly. “I shouldn’t really encourage this sort of behaviour.”

Crowley harrumphed, then wiggled about until his long limbs were leisurely stretched along the couch and his nape was comfortably pillowed onto the ball of Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale waited patiently until Crowley was comfortable, but a soft gasp escaped his lips, when Crowley picked the stocky hand that had slipped down to his waist and carefully wrapped it around his own throat.

“Like this?” Crowley murmured, lolling his head back to look up at Aziraphale. He saw Aziraphale’s Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed, his palm soft and warm and absurdly gentle around Crowley’s neck. Crowley experienced once again that heady feeling, almost vertigo, as the grip around his throat turned firm, sure, even if not nearly tight enough to impede his breathing.

He relaxed completely, going boneless in Aziraphale’s grasp.

“Of course, my darling,” Aziraphale whispered back, as though terrified of breaking a spell. “Anything you want.”

Crowley closed his eyes, revelling in the steady buzz of his skin, turned on just enough to feel the pull of arousal in his belly, but not to make his cock more than half hard in his pants. It would’ve been maddening, had he not just got off twice in a rather spectacular way, but as it was, it was merely titillating, a lovely sort of tension that made his nerve endings tingle.

“In the consideration of the faculties and impulses,” Aziraphale began, “of the _prima mobilia_ of the human soul, the phrenologists have failed to make room for a propensity which, although obviously existing as a radical, primitive, irreducible sentiment, has been equally overlooked by all the moralists who have preceded them...”

Aziraphale’s reading voice was rather much as Crowley had imagined it would be–a precise, well-paced enunciation of words, which made his posh Oxbridge accent stand out even more starkly. It was also soft, and even, just as soothing as the steady grip on Crowley’s throat, as the comforting sturdiness of his body propping Crowley up.

Crowley reached back with one hand, finding a round knee and giving it a squeeze. He smirked to himself when the voice stuttered a little, and left the hand were it was, thumb tracing idle circles against the side of Aziraphale’s clothed knee just as Aziraphale’s thumb was absentmindedly stroking up and down the stretched column of Crowley’s neck. Crowley could feel the weight of Aziraphale’s arm on his chest, heavy and welcome, and placed his other hand on the crook of Aziraphale’s elbow. The steady droning broke up, as a tender kiss was placed against Crowley’s hair, and then the reading resumed.

Crowley let his smirk soften into a smile, and Aziraphale’s voice lull him to sleep.

* * *

They ended up stumbling into bed deep into the night, after they both had dozed off onto the couch. Crowley had brushed his teeth with his eyes closed, and had been already half asleep by the time Aziraphale joined him under the covers. He let Aziraphale gather him to his chest with a wordless, half-hearted grumble, and proceeded to curl up around the man like a limpet, as Aziraphale wrapped a hand around Crowley’s nape and pressed his lips against the crown of Crowley’s head. They were asleep soon after, and didn’t stir until the sun shone bright and unforgiving straight into Aziraphale’s bedroom.

Surprisingly enough, Aziraphale was already awake, by the time Crowley blinked open his weary eyes. Crowley mumbled under his breath, nuzzling the soft flesh under Aziraphale’s jaw and rucking up the fleece of his pyjama top just enough to touch the bare skin of his generous hip. Aziraphale’s hand closed immediately around Crowley’s nape, and a gentle kiss was pressed against Crowley’s hair.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Aziraphale hummed, slow and pleased as lazy. He was lying on his back, all but cradling Crowley against his chest. Crowley found it a rather brilliant predicament to wake up to.

He also found the half-hard cock poking at his lower belly more than a little interesting.

“Been awake long?” Crowley rumbled, shifting just enough on his perch to rub against Aziraphale’s morning erection. The sigh he got for his trouble sparked a shiver along his spine, and Crowley ground down a little harder, casually pressing his own stiffening cock against the delicious resistance offered by Aziraphale’s plus thigh.

“Not really,” Aziraphale murmured, voice muffled a little by the way he was pressing his face against Crowley’s hair. The hand that wasn’t currently wrapped against Crowley’s nape found its way to Crowley’s arse, gently squeezing the scant meat of it as an encouragement to keep up the lazy, aimless grinding. “An hour or so, I think.”

“You could’ve woken me up,” Crowley offered, placing a lazy kiss on Aziraphale’s chin as he idly rode his thigh. He could feel himself grow harder by the minute, but there was no urgency to it yet, just a steady, happy buzz humming under his skin. He could feel his body and brain slowly coming back online, a drowsy crawl back to full awareness while still clinging vaguely to the very last shard of peaceful sleep. It felt oddly quiet, and tender. Blissfully tender.

“_I_ didn’t want to wake up. I couldn’t sleep anymore, but I wanted to linger a bit.” A heavy drag of fingers against the inseam of Crowley’s thigh, close to his balls, making him shiver. “It’s such a lovely feeling, holding you like this. I felt like indulging a little.”

Crowley gasped at the pointed tenderness of Aziraphale’s low voice, at the lazy touch of fingers against his taint. He spread his legs without thought at the gentle nudge of Aziraphale’s hand between his thighs, and groaned against the soft skin of his neck as he felt the broad palm cradle his heavy balls, those blunt fingers brush against the root of his cock. He was completely hard by now, and bucked against Aziraphale’s thigh at the searing touch.

“How decadent of you,” he gasped, struggling to avoid turning that lazy, relaxed grinding into something else. Soon, but not yet. It felt too good, that tingling, distillate quiet. He didn’t want to shatter it.

Aziraphale chuckled against his hair, the grip on his nape tightening a little.

“I can’t get enough of you,” he whispered, idly fondling Crowley’s balls. “I can’t stop touching you. You must know that.”

“Irresistible, that’s what I am,” Crowley gasped, shivering at the attention, at the words. His hips were starting to pick up the pace, despite his efforts, and his skin was rippling in goosebumps. Pleasure was beginning to pool low in his belly, a liquid heat, simmering deep into his flesh. Each drag of his cock against Aziraphale’s thigh was winding him up a bit tighter, helped along by the subtle rubbing of that broad palm against his aching balls.

“You could say that,” Aziraphale chuckled, scratching his scalp. “My darling, delicious Crowley.”

It was starting to be a little too much. Crowley groaned at the tenderness embedded in Aziraphale’s soft voice, grinding down his cock almost painfully into that plush thigh, as a shiver trickled down his spine. It felt too hot under the thick duvet, almost suffocating. Sweat was beading his skin, making his sleepwear stick to his heated flesh.

Once more, Aziraphale seemed to read Crowley’s discomfort through his fingertips. He took his hand away from Crowley’s arse to shove the duvet out of the way, and even if Crowley whined in protest at the sudden lack of delicious friction against his balls, he relished the soothing touch of cool air against his heated skin.

“Is that better, my sweet boy?” Aziraphale cooed, stroking Crowley’s thigh with a heavy hand. “Or do you need something more? Are you starting to ache, my darling?”

Crowley shivered at the words, heat simmering in the low, heavy voice. He felt electrified, almost dizzy with how quickly that subdued need had turned frantic. His thrusts against Aziraphale’s thigh had turned hard, hips snapping as his body went from idly relishing the building tension to scrambling for release.

“Please,” he pleaded, teeth scraping against Aziraphale’s neck as his fingers sank into the softness just above Aziraphale’s hip. He felt so wonderful, so lovely to the touch. Warm and welcoming.

“Of course, sweetheart,” Aziraphale purred, straight into his ear. “My darling boy. Let me help you.”

Crowley barely registered the shift, blinking up with a spike of hazy surprise as his back hit the mattress. Suddenly, Aziraphale was looming over him on all four, cheeks blushing bright and eyes dark and wide. His hair was shining white against the backdrop of his flushed face, and there was a tuft of pale hairs peeking out of the open collar of his pyjama top.

“Such a lovely, pliant creature you are,” Aziraphale crooned, parting Crowley’s legs with a firm hand before settling between them. Crowley relished the weight pinning him down, and gasped as Aziraphale’s erection pressed hard against his own through the layers of fabric. “My lovely boy, my own darling. I’ll take such good care of you. My precious Crowley.”

It was so much. Crowley arched his back, barely registering the grab Aziraphale had made for his hands, but shivering as he pressed them against the mattress. The grip turned sweet, then, fingers interlocking, but the hold remained unyielding. Crowley groaned, a shuddering, bristling sound, as he found himself thoroughly pinned down, while a rain of kisses pelted his face.

“Is this better, sweetheart?” Aziraphale whispered in his ear, before catching his lobe and pressing his teeth against the delicate skin.

Crowley tried to answer, but his head was spinning, and mumbled gibberish was all he could manage at the first attempt. His legs had fallen open around Aziraphale’s hips, giving him all the room he needed to grind their cocks together. He was keeping his thrusts purposely slow, but they were hard, and heavy, and thorough. Each snap of his hip ignited a cascade of sparks under Crowley’s skin, making him tense under Aziraphale’s body, unable to do much but bear the brunt of the storm.

“Angel,” he wheezed, eventually, baring his throat for Aziraphale’s biting kisses. Aziraphale hummed against Crowley’s Adam’s apple, then grabbed his thighs, spreading him wide open as he ground down against his cock.

It took Crowley a long moment to realise that his hands were free, but when he did, he reflexively grabbed Aziraphale’s head, and pulled him up for a kiss. A proper kiss, in which he could coax those lovely lips open and lick the taste of sleep off Aziraphale’s mouth until he could taste him. And the taste of him only compounded to that fever, making Crowley groan into his mouth as Aziraphale kissed him back, hips stuttering a little in their steady thrusting.

Aziraphale was in precarious balance above him, his entire weight braced onto the elbow he’d sunken into the mattress, but his right hand was still gripping Crowley’s thigh hard enough to leave bruises. Crowley relished the sting, relished the strength simmering behind it, as he stroked down Aziraphale’s arms and felt the firmness of muscles under the soft flannel and the plush flesh. He reached for the hem of Aziraphale’s pyjama top and rucked it up, skimming the tense, rippling flesh at the small of his back with avid fingertips before pushing under the elastic waistband, searching for naked skin under the frankly ridiculous layers of Aziraphale’s sleepwear. He found it, in the clenching of muscles under the soft flesh of his arse, and grabbed fistfuls of it, feeling it bunching up in his palms as Aziraphale’s hips snapped almost viciously between his spread thighs.

Aziraphale let out a shuddering, deep groan, as Crowley rubbed the furled skin of his hole.

“Oh, darling,” he gasped, fingers sinking almost painfully into the scant flesh of Crowley’s thighs, hips pistoning. There was sweat gathering on his brow, as Aziraphale looked down at Crowley with hooded eyes, a bright blush spreading from his hairline to his neck and disappearing into his open collar. Crowley rubbed his fingers against Aziraphale’s perineum, dragging a shiver out of his burning flesh, before going back to playing with his hole. He felt the muscles clench under his touch, then relax, allowing the tip of his index past the rim. Aziraphale felt wondrously hot there, the silkiness of the skin set off by the coarseness of the sparse hairs crowning the fluttering hole.

“May I?” Crowley asked, voice surprisingly steady, given how turned on he was. Pleasure was swirling under his skin, but the thrilling thought of fingering Aziraphale was enough of a distraction to pull him a bit back from the edge.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, had a hazy, vaguely overwhelmed look painted upon his face.

“_Yes_,” he groaned, trying and failing to keep his stuttering hips under control. “Yes, darling, ah, let me...”

He was shivering as he let Crowley’s legs go, and his hands were unsteady as he reached for the drawer on his night stand. He pulled out the plastic tube and squeezed some lube on Crowley fingers, before dropping the thing onto the mattress and smashing their mouths together into a heavy, messy kiss. Crowley did his best to kiss him back, but he wasn’t in much better condition, so violently turned on that he could barely think. He dazedly rubbed the lube between his fingers, warming it up, before pushing his hand once more under the waistband of Aziraphale’s pyjama bottom and reaching for his clenching hole.

Aziraphale’s breath came out in a stuttering gasp, as Crowley spread the lube onto his rim. He had resumed his heavy grinding between Crowley’s splayed legs, and his hand burnt like a brand against the naked skin at the back of Crowley’s knee. There was something vaguely ruthless in the way Aziraphale was keeping him spread open, a brittle counterpoint to Crowley’s steady touch against his hole. Aziraphale kissed him again, frenzied and desperately sweet, as Crowley pushed past the resistance and pressed his index inside to the second joint.

“Oh, that’s so lovely,” Aziraphale groaned, skin breaking into shivers as Crowley started to finger him shallowly. The angle didn’t allow much depth, but Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind, and just feeling how hot and tight he was inside was lighting up Crowley’s skin like a faulty wire. He tried to hold back, but soon he was screwing in a second finger, relishing the way Aziraphale’s walls squeezed them tight together. Crowley thought dreamily that he’d really like to shag him again, if Aziraphale was amenable, but then his hips started to thrust in earnest between Crowley’s spread, trembling thighs, and Crowley didn’t really think about much anymore.

Aziraphale came first, with a deep, shuddering groan and two of Crowley’s fingers shallowly pumping in and out of his stretched hole, but Crowley wasn’t far behind. Aziraphale was milking the very last dregs of his orgasm when Crowley reached his peak, his gasp swallowed by the messy, open-mouthed kiss Aziraphale was trying to deliver, which was barely more than treading chopped breaths between their open lips by then. He came into his own pants with his fingers still pressed inside Aziraphale’s body, Aziraphale’s strong hand wrapped almost painfully around Crowley’s thigh as his lax, shuddering shape nailed him down. He felt hot all over, heart thundering in his chest like a galloping horse. He gasped for breath, fingers slipping out of Aziraphale’s loose hole only to grab onto his arse for dear life. Then Aziraphale rolled them both to their sides, and cradled Crowley’s body close to his own as they recovered.

They stayed like that for a long time, after. Crowley eventually moved from his nest against Aziraphale’s chest to nuzzle at his throat, before reaching for his lips. He felt sticky and disgusting and wonderfully sated, skin beaded with sweat and muscles as heavy as lead, and he wasn’t particularly keen on getting up and taking a much needed shower. He wanted to stay like that for a while longer, clinging to Aziraphale, surrounded by the scent of his skin and his sweat and sex.

Aziraphale kissed him back, sweetly, if a bit tiredly. He looked about as loose and lazily satisfied as Crowley felt.

“Well,” Aziraphale sighed, after a while. He was stroking Crowley’s back, apparently uncaring that his vest was soaked through with sweat.

“Yes,” Crowley chuckled. He kissed him again, just a sweet, lingering press of lips, then nuzzled the slope of his nose.

“That was... nice.”

“Very nice,” Crowley agreed, trying and failing to hold in a snicker. He got thoroughly kissed for his trouble, which wasn’t much of an inconvenience at all, then Aziraphale sighed and brushed his lips against Crowley’s forehead.

“We should get up, I think. I for one need a shower. And we should have something to eat.”

“A shower would be nice,” Crowley said, without really meaning it. He liked staying in bed with Aziraphale, as sweaty and disgusting as both were. He’d always loved revelling in post-orgasmic lassitude, but it was particularly good with Aziraphale. If the lack of enthusiasm in Aziraphale’s words was anything to go by, he wasn’t particularly averse to it either. “Have you already thought where you’d like to go for breakfast?”

A short hesitation, then Aziraphale’s voice, almost shy.

“Well, I, I thought about what you said. Last time. And I made sure my fridge would be up to the task, if you felt like cooking.” A break, and then, hurriedly: “You don’t have to, of course. It would be perfectly lovely to go out for a bite, if you didn’t fancy the idea of bustling about in my sad excuse for a kitchen.”

Crowley’s grin only widened, at Aziraphale’s uncertain offer.

“I would be delighted to, angel.”

Aziraphale’s answering smile was brighter than the sun shining in from the window, and the only thing Crowley could do was to kiss him again. And again. And again.

* * *

It took them a bit of an effort, but they did manage to get out of bed, eventually. Aziraphale rather graciously offered Crowley the first turn in the shower, only to have Crowley trying to tempt him into sharing the ancient tub for an extra bit of wicked time. The proposal, which seemed innocent enough to Crowley (well, at least as innocent as a nice bout of fondling under the spray could be), was met with a violent flush and a rather stern refusal. Crowley had found that response quite confusing, at first, until he’d remembered that every time Aziraphale had had an inordinately impassioned reaction to something, he’d been actually trying to hide some sort of wicked fantasy that he considered way too titillating for Crowley’s delicate sensibilities. Crowley found the thought worthy of some thorough investigation, and stored the entire incident away for later perusal.

He came out of the shower feeling clean and pleasantly invigorated, and found Aziraphale busy freshening up the bedroom. He’d pulled down the covers on the bed and opened the window, which had nullified every effort valiantly put in by his rickety heating system. Clad only in a clean pair of boxers (black and silken and tight enough to showcase neatly the shape of his cock, of course), Crowley felt his skin, still warm and damp from the shower, break into goosebumps as it was hit by the chilly morning air.

Aziraphale, of course, had nothing but a horrified stare for Crowley’s state of dishabille, and all but threw his fleece dressing gown at him.

“You are positively freezing, dear boy,” Aziraphale grumbled, as he tied the sash of his robe tightly around Crowley’s waist. His cheeks were slightly flushed, and even his stern voice couldn’t hide the deep pleasure he obviously felt at having Crowley strutting about wearing his stuff. “I thought you’d taken some clothing with you into the bathroom.”

“I did. My boxers.”

“Pants do not qualify as clothes, my dear,” Aziraphale bit back, before shooing him away. “Off with you, now. You’ll catch your death if you stay here.”

Crowley snickered under his breath at that, but he complied, leaving Aziraphale to his shower. The floor was unpleasantly chilly under his naked feet, the threadbare carpets not nearly enough to insulate his bare skin from the cold woodwork underneath, and Crowley fished a pair of black socks from his bag before heading to the kitchen.

He’d just finished to collect everything he needed and to move Aziraphale’s books out of the way, when the man walked sedately in. He smelt of cedar and sandalwood, just like Crowley, who had unabashedly stolen his shower gel and aftershave, and his hair was still slightly damp from the shower. Unlike Crowley, he’d actually taken the time to get some clothes on, and he looked soft and endearingly approachable in a pair of dark pressed trousers and a beige shirt buttoned all the way up. He’d even fastened a bowtie around his neck, but he’d made some concessions to their lazy Sunday morning in the form of a pair of tartan slippers on his feet and a woolly beige cardigan thrown over the shirt. He approached Crowley with a sunny smile on his face, but the kiss he was about to press on his lips was abruptly cut short, a look of pure horror flashing into his face at the sight of a few pans judiciously splashed with cooking oil being heated up in the close proximity of a few mouldy books that Crowley had obviously failed to move at a distance that Aziraphale deemed even remotely safe (for the aforementioned books, of course, not for a fire hazard).

The bickering that ensued amused Crowley to no end, and kept him entertained as he pottered away at their breakfast. Aziraphale as well appeared to be a master at multitasking, and did not let up with his affronted complaints even as he made up the table and plated everything Crowley was cooking. Crowley’s transgressions, however, had been forgiven and forgotten the moment Aziraphale had put some rashers into his mouth, and the conversation moved on to less incensing topics as they worked through their breakfast. Crowley had puffed up like a peacock at Aziraphale’s obvious delight, even more so since some improvising had to be added to his cooking routine. Aziraphale’s derelict kitchen didn’t even have a proper toaster, which spoke volumes about how much cooking actually went on in there, and the task had been taken over by yet another pan. Given the sad state of the stove, however, Crowley felt he should be grateful the whole thing hadn’t exploded in his face, instead of complaining about some minor inconvenience.

After breakfast, Aziraphale had proposed a stroll, and had insisted on doing the dishes as Crowley got dressed. Crowley took his time to get ready, squeezing into one of his most unforgiving pairs of black jeans and then sloppily tucking a white shirt into the belted waistband, before fastening a black tie around his neck and completing the look with a tight waistcoat and a jacket. He swaggered with a smirk into the kitchen, basking into the heated once over Aziraphale threw his way, and then waited in the living room as Aziraphale swapped his cardigan for a beige sweater vest. Then they were off, walking past Trafalgar Square and reaching the Thames for a stroll along the river. It was well past eleven, and the piers were moderately busy as people walked leisurely along the tree-lined avenue. The sky was overcast, but reasonably dry, and the temperature was rather mild for December. Crowley walked with his hands in the pockets of his coat, black glasses firmly planted on his nose and chin sunken into his woollen scarf, as he listened to Aziraphale’s excited chattering and watched a few clippers float listlessly over the muddy waters.

It was well past midday, by the time they reached the severe shape of the Tower. They managed to find a free bench by the piers, miraculously enough, and sat there for a while, watching the steady stream of tourists heading for the ticket office. Then Aziraphale recalled a nice theatre not too far away, and was amazed by the wonders of modern technology as Crowley pulled out his phone and checked the daily schedule.

“Next show’s in little more than one hour,” Crowley reported, “’s called _All About Eve_. Uh. Never heard that one. Must be new.”

Aziraphale actually _tittered_ at that.

“Not at all, my dear. I’d be rather amazed, in fact, if anything shown in that theatre happened to be in full colour.” At Crowley’s confused frown, Aziraphale elaborated: “They only project cinematic shows in black and white, my dear.”

“Black and white, uh? Many people going for that?”

Aziraphale tilted his head.

“I wouldn’t expect them to, no. I suspect the place is some sort of historical landmark, and doesn’t really need to rely on sales to survive.” A soft smile. “It’s a quiet, lovely old theatre. I think you’ll like it.”

Crowley shrugged, pocketing his phone.

“Sounds good. We have about one hour time to kill, now. Any ideas?”

It turned out that Aziraphale did have an idea. Crowley was more or less willingly dragged across the Thames to see the original site of Shakespeare’s Globe, which was nothing more than a few signs and a shape traced in black marble across the pavement. Crowley did say as much, which prompted a pout from Aziraphale and another short trek across Southwark to visit the modern replica of the theatre, which Crowley found rather more interesting (for the mere but quite vital fact that it was actually there).

After that rather pointless bout of sightseeing, they crossed the Thames once more and headed to Langbourn. The theatre Aziraphale led him to was little more than a door into the side of an old building, and the inside wasn’t much better. It looked old and it smelt as such, but it was empty, and the look of sheer delight lighting up Aziraphale’s features as he ordered sweet popcorns and soda would’ve been worth the trip anyway.

The theatre had only one viewing room, empty and dimly lit. Crowley stumbled twice before finally giving up and taking off his sunglasses. He ignored the little smirk hiding in the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth, as he hooked them over his breast pocket and led him to a pair of seats that he deemed well-placed enough.

The chairs were worn, but comfortable enough. Crowley tried to put his feet up over the empty seat in front of him, but the gesture prompted such an appalled noise from Aziraphale that Crowley begrudgingly resigned to behave for the time being. He stole some of Aziraphale’s popcorn in retaliation, which obviously prompted Aziraphale to put the bucket between them so that his hoard could be more easily shared. Crowley snorted softly under his breath at that and brushed Aziraphale’s hand, which won him a brilliant smile.

The soft lights of the theatre shone into Aziraphale’s eyes, which looked almost dark in the dimness, and Crowley wondered why they’d never gone to the pictures together before. He said so a moment later, and got a shrug for an answer.

“I don’t like theatres much, as far as dating locations go.”

“And why’s that?” Crowley asked, rather curious. Not that he’d dated much in his life, but he’d always thought that theatres made for a perfect setting. They were warm and dark and noisy and the movie kept everyone around too distracted to pay attention to whatever else was going on in the room, if the audience was scattered enough.

“The _reason d’être_ of dating as a whole is to get to know someone. Hard to do that, if you can’t actually talk to your companion.”

Which meant that chattering through the movie and throwing the odd comment about the plot weren’t on the table, Crowley surmised, when the viewing happened in a theatre instead of on a bed in a rotten childhood home. Good to know.

“Does that mean that I’ve exhausted my potential of being interesting?” Crowley chuckled, before shoving another handful of popcorns into his mouth. Aziraphale clicked his tongue, clearly not as much impressed with Crowley’s ability to unlock his jaw as he’d been on other occasions.

“Maybe _I_ have.”

That actually made Crowley laugh.

“Fishing for compliments, angel? How unbecoming.”

Aziraphale snorted at that quip, but whatever answer he had at the ready, it was cut short by the dimming lights which plunged the room into darkness. Crowley followed Aziraphale’s lead and kept his mouth shut, though it felt a bit like an exercise in control at times. The movie turned out to be rather good, a story of obsession with just enough queer undertones to strike a chord, but Crowley had never been very good at sitting still during a movie. He could keep quiet easily enough when he was sleepy or tired (or sated after a mind-blowing orgasm), but the stroll in the cool air had energised him, and he was struggling to pay attention, especially with Aziraphale sitting right beside him. Crowley had nearly considered reaching out for him, once or twice, and perhaps try and tempt him into a bit of naughty play under the cover of darkness, but the honest enjoyment Aziraphale seemed to radiate as he focused the entire weight of his attention on whatever was flickering through the screen changed his mind.

Crowley was a bloody grown man. He could sit still and relish Aziraphale’s company for a couple of hours, even if he was dying of boredom and constantly distracted by the heat and the heady scent wafting off from the man sitting by his side. He tried to relax, but to no avail, and by the time the movie ended, he felt oddly on edge. That was the reason he didn’t go to the pictures much, preferring to stay home and watch the telly. If he wasn’t in the mood for lazy and sleepy, he could potter about the house or idly flit through his phone. That forced stillness didn’t really cut it for him.

The afternoon was already drawing to an end, by the time they walked out of the theatre. It was barely four o’clock, but the sun was already setting, the shadows lengthening over the busy streets. Popcorns weren’t really enough to qualify for food in Aziraphale’s eyes, but snacking through the afternoon apparently made for a light supper, and they ended up munching on some cucumber sandwiches in a little tea room before heading home.

Aziraphale insisted on finishing the Zampa Insigna they had opened the evening before, and they curled up on the couch with a glass in hand, chattering about the movie. Aziraphale had loved it, of course, and Crowley simply basked in his enthusiasm while sipping at the wine. He’d taken off his boots and jacket and perched his glasses on a pile of books nearby, and was now soaking up the soothing familiarity of Aziraphale’s flat like a sponge.

Eventually, however, the restlessness that had plagued him during the afternoon made a comeback, and Crowley decided that he’d been patient enough. He’d been good through the entire movie, but it was difficult to sit so close to Aziraphale without touching him. It’d been hours since their lovely morning romp, and Crowley was getting hungry again. Going by the little side glances Aziraphale kept throwing at him when he thought Crowley wasn’t looking, he wasn’t the only one.

Aziraphale was in the middle of a rambling talk about the historical Macbeth, when Crowley lost whatever patience he had left and shamelessly climbed into his lap. The move startled Aziraphale into silence, and Crowley took advantage of the moment of quiet to settle both their glasses on the desk, before sinking his fingers in Aziraphale’s hair and kissing him thoroughly. He swallowed Aziraphale’s little gasp of surprise and licked deeply into his mouth, humming his approval when he felt Aziraphale’s hands carefully settle on his hips.

“Was I boring you, my dear?” Aziraphale had the courage of teasing him, when Crowley moved from his delectable mouth to his chin, the jut of his jaw. He couldn’t really reach his neck with the damnable shirt and bowtie in the way, but Crowley had every intention of giving it an old college try.

“As if you hadn’t been thinking about this ever since we left that blasted theatre,” Crowley bit back, voice low and rumbling. His affronted growl tore a laughter out of Aziraphale’s throat, making his Adam’s apple bobble under Crowley’s thumb.

“Oh, ever since Eve tried to seduce Bill, actually,” Aziraphale snickered. “I wanted to see how long it would take you to cave.”

“You are a right bastard deep down, I hope you know that,” Crowley scoffed, finding a sweet spot under his jaw as Aziraphale obligingly lifted his head and biting down. Aziraphale tutted sharply at that, and Crowley pulled back with a rumbling sound of protest.

“No marks above the collar, my dear,” Aziraphale scolded him. “I work in a university. Impressionable minds and all that.”

Crowley scoffed.

“They are a bunch of twenty-something with a very loose handle on their underwear, if memory serves. I doubt that a few hickeys will impress them.”

“That’s no excuse,” Aziraphale chided him. Crowley held the pout for a moment longer, before melting into a chuckle and pressing another sweet kiss to Aziraphale’s mouth. Aziraphale’s tongue teased his lips for a moment, then pushed in, just as his hands found Crowley’s arse.

The kiss went on for a while, this time. The flat was quiet enough that they seemed loud in the silence, the rustles of fabric under roaming hands almost deafening.

Crowley’s tight jeans were getting uncomfortable, by the time Aziraphale pulled away. There was a delicious tension rising under his skin, that unsettling, restless energy coalescing into heath.

Aziraphale’s hand was soft, as he pressed his palm against Crowley’s cheek. Crowley leaned into the touch, heavy-lidded eyes roaming over Aziraphale’s flushed, bright face. Aziraphale brushed a thumb against Crowley’s lips, and shivered deeply when Crowley parted them, sucking the tip inside and teasing it with his tongue.

“You wicked, gorgeous boy,” he breathed, his other hand busy fondling Crowley’s arse. “What is it that you would like?”

Crowley shrugged, stroking Aziraphale’s sloping shoulders. He’d lost his sweater vest, but he was still impeccably dressed, if a bit rumpled. Crowley hadn’t even managed to loosen up that ridiculous bowtie yet, though Aziraphale had industriously made quick work of Crowley’s waistcoat and tie.

“Anything goes.” A beat, as Crowley searched Aziraphale’s face with more intent. “Why, do _you_ have something in mind?”

The flush spreading up from Aziraphale’s throat was answer enough. Crowley felt something sharp simmer in his blood, and licked his lips, stroking the sides of Aziraphale’s neck.

“Tell me.”

Aziraphale swiped a hand along his chest, up to his face. He wound his fingers through Crowley’s hair, pulling him down for a brief kiss.

“I’d like to use some of the toys you were so interested in, if you’re amenable,” he whispered, dark eyes intently studying his face. Crowley felt his throat click as he swallowed.

“I’m listening.”

Aziraphale’s smile was bright and lovely and just a bit wicked, as he gently moved Crowley to the side and stood up.

“It will be easier to show you, I think.”

Crowley felt a rush of blood into his temples, as he took the hand that Aziraphale was offering him. He let himself be pulled up on his feet, and followed without a word as Aziraphale led him to the bedroom.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s taking me a bit longer nowadays to write a new chapter, but I truly hope the content will make up for the wait (especially after ending the last chapter in a way that I was given to understand had been rather cruel to my poor readers). Thank you all, very much, for the support. I appreciate it so bloody much. There would be no new chapter at all without your love <3  
And talking about love, please please please shower [uponwhatgrounds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uponwhatgrounds/pseuds/uponwhatgrounds) and these two new amazing [pieces of art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25128289) with buckets of it. I am so grateful for such delightful gifts.  
I hope you enjoy the chapter, and brace yourself for the tiny droplet of plot lost amidst the sea of filth <3

Crowley was a bit disappointed to find out that the thorough freshening up carried out in the morning had made quick work of the heavy tang of sex and sweat, as Aziraphale led him through the threshold. The bedroom had regained its faint smell of old plaster and older books, every sign of their earlier activities completely obliterated. Even the bed had been neatly made up, with a tartan fleece blankets folded into a long strip at the bottom of the creaseless tartan duvet cover.

Crowley felt a curious itch to mess up that artificial tidiness, to indent his presence just a little harder, just a little deeper, until it wouldn’t be as easy to eradicate as the extraneous scent of his skin. Aziraphale had no use for neatness anyway, his home one of the most welcoming clutter Crowley had ever seen.

“Have a seat, darling,” Aziraphale said, guiding him to sit down on the plus mattress, “while I get things started.”

Crowley looked up at him, the soft lights of the room throwing shadows upon his pale face, twinkling in his eyes. Crowley let the touch of his hand linger, getting a soft smile and a gentle kiss for his trouble. Aziraphale’s lips were soft against his own, the scent of his aftershave familiar. Crowley shivered at the tension rising under his skin, matching the flush on Aziraphale’s cheeks.

He couldn’t really rein in his curiosity, as Aziraphale pulled away and stepped to the antique oak wardrobe right in front of the bed. The shutters creaked a little as Aziraphale pulled them open, and Crowley’s brows crawled up to his hairline when he caught a glimpse of the size of the plastic box that Aziraphale was dragging out. He knew better than to be shocked by anything Aziraphale would pull on him by now, but that was a whole lot of plastic dicks a box that size could hold within. Even after everything he’d been told, everything they had done together, there was still a tiny part of Crowley that remembered Aziraphale as the stuffy librarian he’d first met, bright-eyed and fussy and very much not likely to hide a veritable hoard of sex toys in his wardrobe. And yet, there they were.

The box was not only huge, but it looked cheap too, a plastic thing that couldn’t have cost Aziraphale more than a couple of quid at a local stationery store. It looked easy to wash and to sanitise, however, which Crowley guessed was the reason Aziraphale had chosen the thing in the first place.

Crowley watched as the box was carefully laid down on the threadbare carpet and Aziraphale crouched in front of it. He wasn’t actively hiding the content from Crowley’s view, but he wasn’t displaying it either, which Crowley found rather amusing. He wasn’t sure whether Aziraphale meant to prod a little at his curiosity or to shield him from whatever Aziraphale thought could send him running to the hills, but Crowley was much too distracted with the first to resent the second. He knew that Aziraphale would show him everything, if asked to, but Crowley decided that he’d rather be surprised. He’d said as much, after all. Maybe that was Aziraphale’s way to humour him.

Aziraphale was just about to remove the lid on the box, when he stopped dead in his tracks. He turned about, casting a sharp glance at Crowley.

“How inebriated are you, my dear?” he asked, a light frown burrowing his forehead. He’d obviously remembered that they’d been sipping that Indian red of his not five minutes before, and was apparently concerned about ravaging a drunken Crowley.

“Angel,” Crowley sighed, “half a glass of wine is not nearly enough to make me tipsy, let alone pissed.”

Aziraphale watched him a moment longer, before glancing away.

“Just checking.”

“I know,” Crowley answered, softening his tone, “’s alright.”

It was a bit silly to Crowley, all that carefulness, but if it made Aziraphale feel better, he was all for it. The man had his boundaries thoroughly trampled over before, and Crowley could and would be better than that.

Aziraphale had lapsed back into a brief silence. He had a hand pressed against the lid of the box, looking not quite ready to open it up. Crowley could feel anticipation starting to bristle at the bottom of his spine, but he waited him out, trying to feel and relish the electric spark of it instead of smothering it with quick action.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale eventually said, looking up at him, “you should know this. I never used any of these toys on anyone but myself. I haven’t shared a toy with a partner for a long time, and those I used on others have been thrown away quite a while ago.”

Crowley blinked at him. He hadn’t quite thought about that. Toys were rather expensive, and he’d sort of assumed that they would be used until they didn’t work anymore. He’d had a dildo being pushed up his arse once, and he’d held very few illusions about being the one popping the cherry of the blasted thing. As long as toys were cleaned properly after each use, he was all right with that. But he couldn’t deny being rather pleased with the fact that Aziraphale wouldn’t be remembering anyone else, as he used those on Crowley. It was a nice thought.

“And... ah,” Aziraphale carried on, ducking his head a little in something that looked a lot like embarrassment, “a few of them are brand new. I bought them... well. I bought them thinking of you.”

That was a novel thought. No one had bought anything with him in mind before, not like that. It felt nice, oddly warming, given what they were talking about. Aziraphale had bought stuff they could use together. Crowley felt a spike of something bloom in his chest, something sweet and soft, and grinned fondly and a little wickedly at Aziraphale.

“Nice to know you’ve been thinking about me, angel,” he drawled, wiggling his brows in something that was a little too humorous to be properly lewd.

Aziraphale scoffed back at him, but there was the shadow of a shy, soft smile on his lips.

“You naughty thing,” he grumbled, but without bite. “Let’s get a wiggle on, shall we?”

Crowley snorted softly at the phrase, which Aziraphale pointedly ignored, but he was too preoccupied with the fetching blush colouring the pale skin at the back of Aziraphale’s neck to follow through with a snippy remark. Aziraphale dug something out of the box, before closing it and pushing it back in the wardrobe. Then he closed the shutters and ambled towards the bed, something in his hand. It turned out to be a luridly coloured purple plug and a long pale wand. Aziraphale settled them both on the bed and loomed over Crowley, a hand reaching out to cup his face ever so gently. Crowley leaned into the touch, closing his eyes and relaxing against Aziraphale’s soft palm.

“Have you ever had your prostate massaged before, darling?” Aziraphale asked, voice low and bristling just a little. Crowley swallowed, a shiver rolling down his spine at the obvious excitement coming off Aziraphale in waves. He felt always a little weak at the knees, when Aziraphale let on just how affected he was at the thought of handling Crowley. It was such a heady thought, the idea of having so much power over Aziraphale.

“Not really, no.”

A low hum, covering up the catch in Aziraphale’s even breathing.

“Would you like to try?”

“Yes,” Crowley bit out, licking his lips, a shudder lurking in his voice. “Yes, I’d like to.”

A deep, steadying breath. Crowley forced his eyes open, looking up at Aziraphale. He felt already a little light-headed, blood rushing down, skin rippling in goosebumps. Heart pumping.

Aziraphale’s eyes were dark in the low lights, his face full of shadows. His hand cupped Crowley’s neck, fingers trading through the short hair at his nape. Crowley’s breath itched at the unmistakable possessiveness of that grasp, clipped nails digging into the soft fleece blanket under him.

“Good.” Aziraphale’s voice was steady, slow. “You remember your colours darling, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Will you repeat them for me?”

Crowley licked his lips. He felt his shoulders drop, his muscles relax. Such a strange counterpoint to the tension rising in his belly.

“Green. Yellow. Red.”

“_Very_ good, sweetheart.” Crowley shuddered at the praise, almost missing the brief hesitation in Aziraphale’s voice, as he stroked a hand down his neck, swiping along the slope of his shoulder before tracing with his knuckles the stretched line of Crowley’s throat. “And...”

A shiver, Aziraphale’s uncertainty trickling ever so slowly into his fogged mind, but getting there eventually.

“Yes?”

“Well.” The touch turned soft again, gentle fingers tracing the dome of Crowley’s forehead, trailing down his temple. “You don’t have to, of course, but it would please me if you, ah... if you asked for my permission, before you climaxed.”

Crowley blinked, taking a moment to parse through Aziraphale’s request. He’d never asked anyone permission to come before, but there was something buried deep in his flesh that liked the idea. He felt molten heat pooling low in his belly, breath stuttering at the thought.

(A memory, coming unbidden to the forefront of his mind. He was on his knees, Aziraphale’s glistening cock hovering before his lips.

_Are you asking my permission to touch yourself?_

How desperate, how _hungry_ Aziraphale had sounded. Crowley could still feel his skin answering, an entire day later. Such an intimate concession of power.

_It felt almost as if I was in charge of your orgasms._

Well, then. Crowley had liked the idea then. He surely liked it now.)

“Oh.” A breath, shallow and shuddering. “Sure. I can do that.”

Aziraphale’s voice was almost trembling, as he stroked his cheek.

“My darling, my beautiful boy,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

Crowley closed his eyes, leaning into the touch as that quivering tension spiked for a moment before ebbing away. He sighed into it when he felt the gentle press of Aziraphale’s lips upon his own.

“Stay here, darling,” Aziraphale hummed, pulling away. “I’ll be right back.”

Crowley opened his eyes slowly, sluggishly, as the wondrous warmth of Aziraphale’s body disappeared. He watched him vanish quickly into the bathroom, and took a deep, unsteady breath, as he willed his hazy mind to pull back a little from that quiet, dreamy state. He rubbed a lazy hand against his nape, and looked down, taking in the silicone toys lying at his side.

He realised a little belatedly that Aziraphale had probably left the toys there on purpose, so that Crowley could take a good look at them and gauge if they were too much for him, if he wanted to be played with like that, and most likely to tease him with the suggestion of how those toys would be used. The purple plug was roughly the length of his ring finger, between the tip and the flared base, and at its thickest almost twice its girth. It was shaped like a drop, which made insertion easy, and it had a handle at the very end, which meant that it could be moved around. The white wand looked a bit like a dildo, but it was thinner than most dildos he’d ever seen. It looked harder, too, and it lacked the typical dick shape. It looked about twice as long as the plug, and was slightly curved.

All in all, they didn’t look like anything he couldn’t take, and Crowley felt a thrill rushing down his spine at the thought of Aziraphale using them on him, _playing_ with him.

He swallowed thickly, as the word lingered in the forefront of his mind. He could feel the bristling pressure of them along his spine, into his very flesh, the idea of Aziraphale taking his time to break Crowley again and again swirling like a drug into his mind. And Crowley _letting_ him, lying there, pliant and yielding, for Aziraphale to do as he pleased. Taking whatever Aziraphale decided to give him. Crowley was dizzy with how quickly and how violently the thought turned him on.

He could feel the tension into his teeth as Aziraphale leisurely strolled back from the bathroom, a rich blue towel in his hand. He took a moment to study Crowley, standing by the bed with his head slightly tilted, before a new flush washed over his cheeks. He licked his lips, eyes roaming Crowley’s body, before burying holes into his eyes.

“Take off your clothes, sweetheart,” he said, voice cracking ever so slightly. “I’ll make sure everything is ready.”

Crowley’s breath caught at the blatant hunger in those blue eyes, then he rose on unsteady legs and complied. His hands felt clumsy as he tried to unbutton his shirt, but in reality he was too light-headed and way too distracted to pay attention to what he was doing. He couldn’t take his eyes off Aziraphale, the careful way he had placed the folded towel on the pillow and was now lining up the toys and the lube on it. Aziraphale disappeared for a second into the living room and came back with one of his softest throw cushion, lingering a good moment on Crowley’s naked chest before placing the cushion on the bed and getting rid of his shoes.

Crowley reflexively licked his lips as Aziraphale went to work on his sleeves next, unbuttoning the cufflinks and rolling them up his fuzzy, thick forearms. Crowley was naked to his waist now, the shirt thrown upon Aziraphale’s padded armchair and his clumsy hands working on the buttons of his jeans. It felt good being bare, free from the constriction of his clothes and the unnerving brush of fabric against his oversensitive skin, too dramatically turned on to feel properly the chilly draughts swirling over his skin. It felt even better to ease the pressure against his cock. He’d been half-hard ever since he’d straddled Aziraphale’s lap, but now the constraint of his tight jeans was becoming unbearable. He exhaled deeply, full of relief, when he pushed the rough cloth down his thighs and eventually off his legs. He threw the jeans too over the armchair, then got rid of his boxers and socks, just as Aziraphale took off his bowtie and thumbed open his collar. It was just a couple of buttons, but Aziraphale wore his layers so well that it seemed positively decadent to see him like that, with a loose collar and rolled-up sleeves. Crowley felt the thrill of it under his skin, and swallowed thickly as he stood, naked and barefoot on Aziraphale’s threadbare carpet, and waited to be told what to do.

Aziraphale didn’t rush on his account. He took his time to fluff up a pillow against the wooden headrest in the middle of the bed, then climbed onto the mattress and wriggled about until his back was comfortably resting against it. He looked maddeningly unruffled, the picture of dainty calm as he stretched his legs and crossed his bloody ankles. Then, finally satisfied, he placed the throw cushion over his lap and patted it gently, eyes steadily trained on Crowley.

“Come here, darling.”

Crowley blinked, a momentary frown burrowing his forehead before Aziraphale’s meaning caught up with him.

“You mean...?”

“Yes.” There was a placid, almost seraphic smile painted over Aziraphale’s soft lips, belied by the hunger bristling in his dark eyes. “Lie across my lap, belly down, cushion under your pelvis. It’s the best way for me to work on your lovely bottom, don’t you think?”

Crowley’s breath came out in a shuddering whoosh at the words, low and almost purring. He felt electrified, body nearly shaking with need. He was hard already, aching with it. His cock bobbed uncomfortably between his thighs as he approached, his skin tight over his muscles as he climbed onto the bed and crawled towards Aziraphale. He felt exposed, deliciously, maddeningly so, like a fever burning into his flesh. He reached Aziraphale’s side, and straightened up, on his knees, eyeing a little uncertainly the pillow lying unassumingly in Aziraphale’s lap.

“How good you are, my darling,” Aziraphale cooed, reaching out to stroke a heavy hand down Crowley’s lower back, cupping his arse. “Now, lie down. Let me help you, my dove.”

A low, wheezy moan escaped Crowley’s lips as he felt Aziraphale’s gentle hand cradling his hard, aching cock, while helping him tenderly into place with the other. He could feel his mind losing focus, trembling in the riot of his flesh, as Aziraphale pulled him into his lap like a doll and arranged his cock until it was pressed between the throw pillow on his lap and Crowley’s tense belly.

“Like that, my sweet boy,” Aziraphale purred, a steady stream of endearments as Crowley settled down. “Let go. I have you. You’re all right, my darling, my sweetheart. I’ll take care of you.”

It felt wonderfully, scarily easy to follow those sweet entreats. Crowley allowed Aziraphale to bear his weight, his knees and elbows planted into the mattress, his chest pressed against Aziraphale’s solid thigh. His feet were hanging a bit awkwardly off the bed, but he felt all right, comfortable and oddly safe, as Aziraphale’s hands stroked his shuddering back from nape to tailbone. It took him a moment, but eventually Crowley felt his muscles unclench, his body give up the fight as he relaxed into the touch, the vulnerability of that position swirling like a drug in his bloodstream. He felt oddly charged, like a battery, skin alive and flesh bristling with energy, just as his mind turned hazy again and his muscles felt as heavy as lead.

“You are so beautiful, my love. Look at you, so pliant for me. What a wonderful creature you are.”

_My love_.

Crowley closed his eyes, cheek pressed against the soft duvet cover as Aziraphale scratched his scalp.

“That,” he whispered, uncharacteristically uncaring of how husky his voice sounded. “Say that again.”

A beat, then Aziraphale’s soft, tender voice.

“My love. My darling love.”

Crowley shuddered, violently and helplessly, aching erection grinding against the pillow. Aziraphale had chosen well, the casing soft and uniform against the delicate skin of Crowley’s hard cock, the resistance provided by the padding just right.

It went on for a while, pressure easing a little as Aziraphale simply stroked Crowley’s back and whispered loving endearments. Crowley slumped across his lap, still hard but not unbearably so, bristling skin soothed by Aziraphale’s gentle touch. He felt himself drift, curiously focused onto his body instead of trapped into his own head, revelling in each spark of delicious pleasure that Aziraphale’s touch and tender voice elicited from his skin. It felt soft, and sweet, a subdued sort of bliss. Crowley let himself be lulled by it, barely registering the shift when Aziraphale’s hand started to move lower, to caress the curve of his arse. He felt oddly warm, even as he lay naked in Aziraphale’s chilly flat, the scent of him surrounding Crowley like a cloud. He felt at peace. And as Aziraphale stroked a hand up Crowley’s thigh and pushed his thumb between Crowley’s cheeks, rubbing his hole, he felt vaguely relieved that he took the time that morning to use the douche he’d started to pack with his toiletries. He always made sure to be clean when he met Aziraphale, but as their time together had started to get longer and longer, finding more creative solutions had become imperative.

“Like that, love,” Aziraphale murmured, voice humming with such deep approval that Crowley felt it in his own bones. “Don’t clench. You feel so lovely, so wonderful.”

There was a subtle but undeniable power in Aziraphale’s voice, pulling at Crowley’s skin like a rope. He could do nothing but obey, body heavy and loose as he enjoyed the feeling of Aziraphale’s thumb rubbing steadily against the sensitive skin of his rim.

He sighed, a shallow, trembling thing, when he felt the press of both Aziraphale’s hands onto his thighs, gently encouraging him to spread his legs. Crowley was too light-headed to do much but comply, and was rewarded with gentle caresses up his inner thighs, pleasure sparking across his skin. Then Aziraphale’s thumbs were pulling at both sides of his hole, and Crowley’s heart began thumping wildly in his chest at the heady feeling of being held open for inspection.

He grasped the covers in his fists with a gasp, and heard Aziraphale shush him ever so sweetly.

“None of that, darling,” Aziraphale chided him. “Let me take a good look at you.”

Crowley groaned, a shuddering, mangled sound, but stopped his wriggling as Aziraphale kept pulling at the furled skin of his hole. Every touch felt like a spark, pleasure pooling like drops into his belly. Crowley hid his face into the covers as Aziraphale cradled his balls in his right palm, left thumb playing with Crowley’s rim.

“Breathe, my love,” Aziraphale crooned, the tip of his thumb breaching Crowley at intervals, dipping just a little into his fluttering hole. “You’re doing so well.”

Crowley couldn’t help but grind his aching cock against the cushion at that, shoulders tensing as he pulled at the covers. He could feel the strain into his trembling thighs, his tense belly. Aziraphale shushed him again as he let up, stroking Crowley’s back up and down once again, allowing him to swallow mouthful of air in heaving gasps.

The telltale snap of a tube being thumbed open cascaded down his spine like a tremor, and Crowley held his breath, waiting to be breached.

He didn’t have to wait long. The lube felt damp and only slightly cool against his skin, evidence of Aziraphale’s efforts to warm it up a bit, and Crowley sucked in a shuddering breath as Aziraphale’s slick fingers rubbed it into his clenching rim. The touch was pointed, but unhurried, steady and tortuously pleasurable. Crowley panted into the covers, struggling to relax, until Aziraphale’s dry hand clasped around his nape, pushing him down.

It was like hitting a switch. His whole body seemed to deflate under that steady grasp, trembling muscles slowly relaxing. Crowley felt the touch of Aziraphale’s index at his rim turning pointed, purposeful, and keened softly as it pushed past the rim. Aziraphale was cupping the small of his back into his palm as he pulled out and then pushed inside again, a bit deeper this time, and it felt atrociously tender for some reason being touched like that, so very carefully, even as Aziraphale’s knuckles dug into the oversensitive skin of his perineum. Crowley revelled in the feeling of being breached, filled, as Aziraphale went on with his fingering in a slow counterpoint of pushes and pulls.

Crowley barely felt it when Aziraphale added another finger, the penetration easing the blood pressure in his wilting cock. It was barely a respite, but Crowley relished the lazy pleasure swirling into his vein–the high of being played with, stretched open, impossible to describe.

He let out something embarrassingly close to a whimper, as those fingers slowly withdrew. He felt loose, sluggish, a shuddering mess in Aziraphale’s lap. His cock was taking an interest again, and his hands ached from the strength with which he was fisting the covers.

“I’m going to use the plug, now,” Aziraphale murmured, his soft voice washing over him. “Tell me if it gets too much.”

“Alright,” Crowley found the wherewithal to gasp, when it became clear that Aziraphale was waiting for an answer. Aziraphale rewarded him with a gentle squeeze around his nape, before taking his hand away.

Crowley took advantage of the short respite to catch his breath, ears pricked to catch the snap of the lube being thumbed open, then a softer sound, almost drowned into the heaving of his heavy gasps, of something being thoroughly stroked with a wet hand.

There was no way for Crowley to know what was going on aside from Aziraphale’s calm commentary, since the towel with the toys had been placed close to Crowley’s knees. It made sense, since that would be the side of Aziraphale’s dominant hand, but it also prevented Crowley from seeing clearly what he was doing. He wondered briefly whether that had been planned, too, to give him a modicum of surprise, but he couldn’t say for sure. It did add a thrill to the entire proceeding, though, and Crowley shifted slightly, shuddering at the impossible pleasure of rough cloth rubbing against oversensitive skin. His entire body felt charged, exposed nerve endings like broken cables.

His heart was thundering into his chest like a galloping horse by the time Crowley felt something press gently against his hole.

“Relax, my sweet boy,” Aziraphale crooned, returning his left hand to Crowley’s nape. “Let it in. Oh, how lovely you are, opening up so well for me.”

Crowley keened and gasped into the covers, as Aziraphale pressed the plug inside. He went slow, pushing in and easing out in intervals, playing with Crowley’s hole until it was stretched around the thickest segment. Crowley felt the exquisite pressure, and revelled in it, in the feeling of being spread opened and held there, body played like an instrument. The plug wasn’t nearly as thick as Aziraphale’s cock, but there was no urgency in the way Aziraphale was toying with him, no barely restrained animal need to plunge inside and start fucking. Everything felt twice as slow, twice as heady as usual, and from the way Aziraphale’s heavy breath was itching and shuddering into the quiet room, Crowley wasn’t alone in thinking that.

Then the flared end of the plug was resting snugly against his perineum, and Aziraphale took a moment to spread him open, to see the way his hole was stretching around the toy.

“Oh, love. How incredible you look.” There was a furious, bristling hunger in Aziraphale’s voice, as his thumb traced the shape of Crowley’s stretched rim. “You make me want to keep you like this forever.”

Crowley groaned at the words, at the pointed touch, trembling thighs doing their best to push back as Aziraphale pulled out the plug a little and then thrust it back inside, fucking Crowley with it. It was slow going, but Aziraphale wouldn’t let up, left hand heavy around Crowley’s nape as the other screwed the plug in and out of his tender hole over and over and over. Then Crowley heard a muted click, and the bloody thing started to vibrate in his arse.

“Fuck, _angel_,” Crowley wailed, fists ripping the covers from the bed as the low vibration lit up the already keyed-up nerve endings of his well-used rim.

“Too much, love?” Aziraphale asked, cracks fissuring his normally steady voice. He was still going slow, but he hadn’t stopped, screwing the vibrating plug in and out of Crowley’s arse as though he wasn’t squirming on his lap like a worm on a hook.

“Don’t stop, angel, oh, oh, that’s- _fuck_,” Crowley gasped, keening as Aziraphale, the sodden _bastard_, answered by turning up the vibrations another notch.

“As you wish, my darling boy,” he purred, in a slow, unsteady voice. Crowley cried out as the vibration was turned up another notch, hips pistoning to fuck himself onto the blasted plug and then grind down his aching cock into the pillow. He could feel himself leaking, skin itching with the sweat gathering into the hollow of his back. He felt strung out and overheated, sweaty hair flopping into his eyes, but he could do nothing aside from keep moving, humping Aziraphale’s pillow as though his life depended on it.

Then the delicious, atrocious thrusts slowed down into a stop, leaving Crowley a whimpering, sweaty mess squirming uselessly in Aziraphale’s lap.

“Oh, darling,” Aziraphale grunted, gently taking out the plug until Crowley was left empty and bereft, gasping softly into the covers. “One day I will bring you to climax just like that, but I have other plans for you right now.”

Crowley thought about groaning something in reply, but he felt too hazy, too far off to say anything at all. His body felt lit up from the inside, electricity crackling through his nerves, and Crowley had never felt more exposed and out of control. He shuddered violently at the feeling of Aziraphale’s thumbs prying open his loose hole, unable to do anything but whine softly.

“My sweet love, how good you are to me,” Aziraphale crooned, fingering him gently as his left hand stroked Crowley’s heaving back, soothing his bristling flesh. “Do you need to climax? Or can you hold on a little longer?”

Crowley keened in reply, too strung out to realise at first that Aziraphale had meant it as a real question–one that required an answer. The gentle stroking of his soft palm up and down Crowley’s back didn’t stop, but the steady thrusting of at least two of his fingers into Crowley’s loose hole slowed into a halt. Crowley whined at the loss of sensation, but Aziraphale had left them inside him at least, knuckles pressed tightly against Crowley’s perineum. It was oddly reassuring, feeling the girth of Aziraphale’s fingers pressed so deep inside.

“Will you answer for me, darling?” Aziraphale murmured, gently stroking his shoulder. Crowley shuddered, tightening his grip onto the covers.

“A little... longer,” he gasped, rolling his hips to provide himself with some friction, to ease the ache in his hard cock. He felt cool fingers against his cheek, careful and devastatingly tender.

“My best boy, trying so very hard for me,” Aziraphale murmured, before pulling his hands away. Crowley tried to relax, to unclench his muscles during that brief respite, but he felt too wired up, flesh aching with the mounting, bristling need to come. He would try, for Aziraphale, but he wasn’t sure how long he could go on. He’d never been so thoroughly played with, pushed so close to the brink without being actually kicked through the threshold.

He was so loose that his rim offered only minimal resistance, as something cold and hard and damp pressed to enter. Crowley could do little but whine into the covers as the wand slowly slid deeper into his trembling body, longer and thicker than the plug, until the blunt tip reached his prostate. It had only been a brushing touch, Aziraphale quite obviously not aiming it properly at the tight bundle of nerves yet, but Crowley was already so overstimulated that it felt like a punch straight into his guts. He gasped, body tensing as pleasure scoured his nervous system like a blaze. The steady hand Aziraphale had placed against the back of his neck felt like an anchor into the storm, and Crowley focused on that, allowing his shuddering body to relax just a little.

“Just like that, my darling,” Aziraphale shushed him, playing with the short hair on his nape. “Breathe. It will feel so good, I promise.”

There was such a terrible tenderness in Aziraphale’s voice, and Crowley was so impossibly keyed up, so violently vulnerable in that position, that he almost felt like crying. He actually felt a few tears cling to his eyelashes and roll down his nose, and was vaguely thankful that Aziraphale didn’t seem to notice them. Breaking down during sex had been humiliating enough once, he wasn’t really dying for a repeated performance.

Then Aziraphale turned on the wand and aimed it at his prostate, an obviously experimental, gentle press, and Crowley was done for.

The orgasm slammed into him like an earthquake, violent and all-encompassing. It hit too hard and fast for Crowley to try and stop it, and he could only gasp helplessly into the beddings as he felt it rise into his belly, a dizzying wave so intense it was almost painful. He came with a broken wail all over Aziraphale’s cushion, twitching and shaking like a leaf, without control, spine snapping straight and toes curling as he kicked out, muscles clenching around the wand buried deep into his arse and fists gripping with tearing strength the soft bedding. He came in spurts of blinding pleasure, each more intense than the one before, the wand in his arse never letting up, just like the tight grip on his nape, until he was coming dry. Then oversensitivity kicked in, and Crowley sobbed into the covers, body shuddering from head to toe in a rippling wave, and Aziraphale finally, finally, turned off the blasted thing and eased it out of Crowley’s arse. He’d been impossibly gentle, but even that slow drag was too much for Crowley’s overwrought body, and he twitched helplessly with a soft wail at that unbearable stimulation.

“You’re all right my love, my perfect, wonderful boy,” Aziraphale crooned, voice sweet and tender and subtly broken. “You’ve been so good, so perfect to me. Taking everything I gave you, and then coming so beautifully for me. How wondrous you are.”

Crowley felt almost as if his entire body was tingling, the last dregs of his orgasm snapping random synapses alight even as it slowly settled down. He was gasping as though he’d just run a marathon, sucking in shallow, panting breaths that didn’t seem nearly deep enough to reach his lungs, and could feel the roaring of his blood and the furious thundering of his heart in his ears. His skin felt alive, prickling with electricity and pooling sweat, and he felt overheated, like an engine pushed past its endurance. Aziraphale’s words only seemed to turn up that frenzy notch after notch, and yet something in his core was slowly cooling down, his bristling flesh held together by the tender touch of Aziraphale’s warm hands around his nape and stroking slowly up and down his spine.

It seemed to take Crowley forever to climb down from his high, but he slowly felt a drowsy lethargy take the place of that shuddering energy, muscles weighting down instead of breaking in shudders. He was still shaken all over by the odd shiver, but his body was settling down, his overstimulated nerve endings pulling back from that electrified frenzy into an exhausted quiescence. He felt tired, all of a sudden, aching everywhere and impossibly heavy. He was barely aware of his breathing calming down, his racing heart slowing into a steady beat. He felt ready to drift away, worn out and steeped deep into a lulling blissfulness.

He was barely aware of the hand gently petting his shoulder.

“My sweet Crowley, my beautiful love,” Aziraphale was murmuring, with such loving tenderness that Crowley felt it into the very marrow of his bones. “Can you move?”

“Move?” Crowley mumbled, voice so slurred that he’d feel embarrassed in another time. “Move where?”

“Just off my legs, dove. Yes, like that.”

It took them both a moment to coordinate Crowley’s heavy limbs, but eventually they managed to roll him halfway down the mattress. Once there, however, he did nothing but lay on his back, with his legs dangling over the side of the bed and his eyes closed. He felt tired enough to fall asleep right then and there, naked and dirty and blissfully worn out, but Aziraphale was touching him ever so tenderly, soft hands caressing his sweaty hair.

“Darling, I need...” he was whispering, something urgent shuddering in his voice, and Crowley struggled to open his eyes.

“Of course, angel,” he slurred, trying to pull himself together instead of passing out after his orgasm like a heathen without a thought for his partner. “Just a moment, I’ll...”

“No, darling, you don’t have to do anything,” Aziraphale murmured, clumsy hands already busy with his trousers. “Look at you, like that, so beautiful, letting me do all those things to you... my sweet boy, so lovely, so pliant for me, so wonderful...”

There was awe shimmering in Aziraphale’s eyes as he looked down at Crowley, as though he was staring at something infinitely precious. It was such a heady thing, being looked at like that. Crowley could do nothing but shudder, struggling to lift a hand to touch Aziraphale’s flushed cheek, as Aziraphale slammed a hand into the mattress by Crowley’s head to brace his weight and closed his hand around his own cock, starting to pull at it almost furiously as he stared down at Crowley’s slack face.

“How glorious you are, my love,” Aziraphale whispered, with impossible, painful tenderness, before coming with a shuddering gasp all over Crowley’s chest. A stripe reached Crowley’s chin, dripping onto his neck, and Crowley sighed into the feeling, eyes closing again as he felt thick ropes painting his sticky, sweaty skin.

Then Aziraphale’s lips were on his own, kissing him shallowly between shuddering gasps, and Crowley cupped his soft chin with a heavy hand as he tried his best to kiss him back.

“My darling Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, sinking his fingers in Crowley’s hair and pressing their foreheads together. His breath was heavy and damp against Crowley’s lips, but he didn’t mind, sharing his air with Aziraphale as his body cooled down.

It felt like an eternity later when Aziraphale pulled himself up on unsteady hands, but it probably hadn’t lasted more than a few minutes.

“Stay there, love,” he murmured, struggling a little to get his cock back into his pants and zip up his trousers. “I’ll get you cleaned up properly.”

Crowley hummed, feeling too worn out and spacey to do more than that. He realised he’d closed his eyes again when he felt a damp cloth against his chin, deliciously warm, and watched from under heavy lids Aziraphale carefully cleaning up the mess they’d both made of Crowley’s sweaty chest and stomach. Then he gently pushed Crowley’s legs open and wiped off the excess of lube from his oversensitive hole.

“I’m sorry, love,” he said, when Crowley hissed through his teeth at the sting. “Does it hurt?”

“Stings a little. ‘s ok, though.”

“I’ll be gentler, then,” Aziraphale whispered, even though it would’ve been impossible for him to handle Crowley with more tenderness.

When he decided that Crowley was clean enough he got up, bringing both the dirty pillow and the used toys into the bathroom together with the damp cloth before coming back on marginally steadier legs. He looked almost as wiped out as Crowley felt, but he grabbed the fleece blanket and settled back against the pillow, before wrangling Crowley into his arm.

It took Crowley a long moment to realise that the whole thing would go much more smoothly if he helped out a bit, and he tried his best, but his body felt too heavy to do much. That unresponsiveness would’ve worried him, in another moment, but right then and there he felt too blissed out, too hazy to think about anything at all. He curled up in Aziraphale’s embrace and barely felt the weight of the blanket being settled over his cooling skin, only vaguely aware of Aziraphale’s fussing. He eventually found himself safely ensconced into warm fleece, held close to a sturdy chest by strong arms he knew well and surrounded by Aziraphale’s scent. He pressed his face against that patch of soft skin under Aziraphale’s jaw and breathed him in, deeply, hands distractingly petting the worn cloth of Aziraphale’s shirt and the giving flesh just underneath.

It was then that he remembered.

A thread of dread shuddered under his skin, making him squirm. Aziraphale didn’t seem to like the development, if the tightening grasp around Crowley’s shoulders was of any indication.

“What’s wrong, love?” Aziraphale murmured, obviously struggling to loosen his hold. He pressed a kiss to Crowley’s forehead, hands gentle as he stroked his back.

“I’m sorry, angel,” Crowley whispered back, trying and failing to calm down. “I, I didn’t ask. For permission. I didn’t do what you told me. I’m so sorry. I tried to hold back, but I couldn’t, I just, it was too much...”

“Oh, my darling, no. You don’t have anything to be sorry for. You were perfect.”

“But you asked...”

“And you tried,” Aziraphale interrupted him, with a tone of voice that brooked no argument. “Next time, you’ll try again. You did your best, my darling, but it _was_ a lot. And you took it so splendidly. I couldn’t ask more of you.”

It was the tenderness, like always, that hit him deep. Crowley felt something crack a little in his chest, and soon he had his arms around Aziraphale’s neck, holding him tight.

“I’m sorry, angel,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I’ll be better next time.”

“You were wonderful already, my dear.” A kiss on his cheek, impossibly gentle, as Aziraphale petted his hair. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You were perfect. And I’m so proud of you, my love. So very proud.”

It was too much, too bright, too confusing. Crowley wasn’t too sure why or how, but he suddenly found himself crying, stifling quiet hiccups in Aziraphale’s shoulder as he soaked his shirt until he was too tired to go on. Aziraphale never stopped stroking his back, kissing his head, or softly whispering how much he loved him into his ear until Crowley, well past exhaustion, fell asleep into his arms.

* * *

He woke up a while later, at the gentle touch of Aziraphale’s hand against his cheek.

“Darling?” he was whispering; probably had been for a while. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I need you to come back to me now. It’s getting late.”

Crowley grumbled under his breath. He felt worn out, eyes puffy and a vague headache thumping steadily at the back of his head. His muscles ached, his arse ached, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so thoroughly, pervasively sated, almost content.

Then he remembered his little crying spell, and groaned under his breath as he shifted in Aziraphale’s embrace.

“Fuck,” he grumbled, pressing his face against Aziraphale’s neck. “I know I’m setting pretty terrible precedents, but I don’t usually cry during sex, I _swear_.”

That pulled a chuckle out of Aziraphale’s throat, of all things.

“Well, that wasn’t technically _during_ sex, if it makes you feel any better,” he murmured, between soft kisses pressed against the crown of Crowley’s head. “And it’s quite normal, after something so intense.”

“Yes, well,” Crowley mumbled, nuzzling into the soft skin under Aziraphale’s jaw. “Still embarrassing.”

“Nothing to be embarrassed about, love,” Aziraphale predictably answered, lifting a hand to seize Crowley’s nape into his palm. “Providing you with comfort is hardly a hardship, and I enjoy holding you.”

The touch, as it always did, soothed something deep into Crowley’s blood, and he felt himself relax in Aziraphale’s grip. He slumped into Aziraphale’s embrace, sighing deeply. He’d have bet good money on the fact that Aziraphale was also well aware of the effects his touch had on Crowley, but he wasn’t about to complain when he got to reap the results.

“Like that, sweetheart,” Aziraphale hummed, nuzzling into his hair. “You did so well. It was so good for me. Did you enjoy it, too?”

“Enough to give you permission to do whatever you want to my arse for the foreseeable future,” Crowley mumbled back. His answer was met with a laugh.

“Oh, love, that’s a dangerous promise to make,” Aziraphale chuckled, scratching his nape. “But I’m glad you liked it. You were so excited about those toys that I would’ve hated to disappoint you.”

“I don’t think you could ever disappoint me, angel,” Crowley answered lightly.

He hadn’t expected the brief silent, or the tightening of Aziraphale’s embrace.

“How precious you are to me, my darling,” Aziraphale whispered, something a little fragile ringing in his voice. “I do love you so.”

“Same here, angel.” A beat, as Crowley extricated himself from Aziraphale’s embrace just enough to peer at his blue eyes. “Everything alright there?”

A wet chuckle.

“Yes, of course, you silly boy.” Aziraphale kissed his lips, his chin, the tip of his nose, before pulling away with a sigh. “It’s just... it _is_ getting late. That’s why I woke you up. You have a long way home, and I don’t want you to be still driving well past midnight. You have work in the morning.”

“I don’t live _that_ far out into the woods, you know,” Crowley chuckled, nuzzling into Aziraphale’s cheek. “And you have to go to work tomorrow, too.”

“Not as early as you do, dear boy. I have a middle shift, I can lie in a little.” Another long, lingering kiss. “I hate the thought of sending you home, especially straight after a scene.”

And there it was again, that concern. Crowley felt like he should be bristling at that, at the proof that Aziraphale considered him incapable of looking after himself, but he found that he didn’t. Not really. He felt warm inside, instead, as though something soft and gentle was brushing at his sharper edges.

“You don’t have to,” he found himself saying, looking up with sudden uncertainty at Aziraphale’s bright eyes. “I could stay. If you liked.”

“Don’t you have stuff to do at home?”

Crowley shrugged.

“Not really. Got everything done before I left.” A beat, as Crowley forced himself to carry on, push the words past his lips. “I thought... er, I thought I could stay here another night. If you’d have me.”

It would’ve appeared impossible to Crowley before, but something seemed to soften even more in Aziraphale’s face at that. His smile was nothing short of lovely as he stroked with gentle fingers Crowley’s cheek.

“Of course I would, darling.”

Crowley tried hard to swallow against the lump in his throat, but it only went away when Aziraphale kissed the heartache off his lips.

* * *

Crowley wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, cuddling each other close and idly snogging like teenagers, but eventually the hour turned late enough that Aziraphale decided that putting a stop to it was the responsible thing to do. Crowley strongly suspected that his wicked tongue and wandering hands were actively tempting Aziraphale into another round, which would’ve pushed back sleep of another hour at the very least, and Aziraphale was way too conscious to allow Crowley to go through the day on very little sleep. That he also valued his own sleep, of course, was nothing but incidental.

Be as it may, Crowley found himself being shepherded with merciless intent towards the bathroom in nothing but his own skin and tottering on unsteady feet way sooner than he would’ve liked, which prompted him to hurry up with his business so that he could get back to Aziraphale’s warm bed (and his even more welcoming body) as fast as humanly possible. He washed himself perfunctorily, instead of lingering under the shower spray as he was wont to do whenever he could, and was still dripping a little as he brushed his teeth and marched out of the bathroom still busy rubbing his damp skin with one of Aziraphale’s fluffy towels. He grinned wickedly at Aziraphale’s shameless once-over up and down his naked body, which prompted Aziraphale to roll his eyes before disappearing into the bathroom and closing the door behind his back to preserve whatever little heat Crowley’s short shower had managed to round up.

Crowley was already snuggling comfortably under the covers, when Aziraphale came back. He got to watch as Aziraphale unhurriedly covered his glorious body, still slightly damp and rosy after his warm shower, in tartan-coloured cotton, and mused a little forlornly that however much he loved their play, he missed holding a bare Aziraphale in his arms. Perhaps he could say something about it, the next time they met up. Aziraphale was always more than eager to cater to Crowley’s wishes, after all, and maybe he missed naked cuddling too.

Aziraphale wasted no time in pulling Crowley close to his chest, when he got under the covers. Crowley went willingly, winding up his long limbs around Aziraphale’s body and pressing his forehead against Aziraphale’s soft cheek. Without the sharp smell of his aftershave, the natural scent of Aziraphale’s skin was easier to catch, and Crowley breathed him in. He wasn’t surprised in the slightest to find his scent uniquely soothing, like the gentle touch of his hands against the portion of Crowley’s shoulders left naked by the low cut of his black vest.

“How does your week look like?” Crowley whispered, voice low and barely intelligible between the lazy kisses he was placing along Aziraphale’s neck and the underside of his jaw.

Aziraphale sighed into the touch, manicured nails scratching idly the short hair at Crowley’s nape.

“I only have late shifts from Tuesday through Thursday, I’m afraid, but we could meet up and have breakfast together.” A beat, as Aziraphale slowly kissed Crowley’s forehead. “I do enjoy our late brunches. It’s such a lovely thing, to start my day with you.”

The tenderness in that statement, so open and unashamed, was devastating. Crowley hid his face into Aziraphale’s neck, refusing to start sniffling all over again like a bloody toddler.

“’s nice, yes,” he mumbled, hoping that the death grip he had on Aziraphale could speak with enough eloquence where words had failed him. Aziraphale, however, seemed to have grown well versed in deciphering Crowley’s attempts at communication, since his hand found Crowley’s nape and cupped tenderly the fragile flesh.

“I have a middle shift on Friday, though,” he carried on, obviously electing not to address whatever was going on in Crowley’s head, “and I’m free on Saturday. I’m working again on Sunday, but we could make a short weekend out of it. Have a nice dinner on Friday night, if you’re willing to wait until I’ve finished my shift, and then come back here.”

Aziraphale’s hair felt as soft as a cloud as Crowley sank his fingers into his curls, nuzzling into that lovely neck.

“Sounds good, angel.”

“Wonderful,” Aziraphale hummed, resting his chin on top of Crowley head. “Now let’s try to get some sleep, my dear boy. It’s getting rather late.”

Crowley grumbled something under his breath in response, but he settled down, relishing the physical presence of Aziraphale even after the man had fallen asleep. The short nap Crowley had taken so late into the night had done a number on his sleep patterns, and it took him a long time to fall into a shallow, restless sleep. That meant trudging to work the day after with a weary face and dropping lids, and if it earned him a fair share of knowing leers from Anathema, well. She wasn’t wrong, now, was she?

* * *

“You look well,” Anathema told him on Tuesday morning, out of the blue. He’d just come back from his brunch with Aziraphale, jiggling the keys of his car and in enough of a good mood that a few of his colleagues had thrown him rather suspicious looks. He’d grinned at them like a madman and got downright disquiet glares for his trouble.

“’m alright,” he answered, slumping into his chair and giving it a spin. The poor thing creaked pitifully under that unduly strain, and Crowley wondered vaguely if that would be the day it gave up and dumped his sorry arse onto the floor.

Anathema tilted her head. She had pulled her hair back with a huge clip shaped like a butterfly, burnished and rather old-looking. It matched nicely with her dark dress, the skirt oddly cut to show one calf and cover the other, while the lacy bronze trims almost brushed the floor.

“You look happy,” she added, a secret smile on her lips. “It suits you.”

Crowley grumbled non-committally at that, looking past her at the dreary, damp office. The view was just as disheartening as it’d always been, but it didn’t hit so hard anymore. It was just a place, after all. A place he could leave at any time.

Crowley spent a moment to contemplate how odd it was, that he never really entertained that thought before. And yet, his cubicle was empty, even after all those years, as though he’d been ready to leave any moment now.

Crowley looked away from his desk with a frown, the sight suddenly intolerable.

“Up for a cup of coffee?” he said, standing up a little too abruptly. Anathema eyes were dark and sharp like obsidian shards, as she quietly regarded him.

“Always,” she answered, after a beat, conceding him to keep his peace a while longer. Crowley thanked her silently for that, and led the way.

* * *

It pissed Crowley off immensely to have to cancel his brunch with Aziraphale on Wednesday to drive all the way to Birmingham for an interview, but it did make for a nice story to regale Aziraphale with the following day, which helped a little to soothe his ruffled feathers. Space visitors always made for good funny times in his book, even if Anathema chided him for being a narrow-minded, unidirectional binary thinker (whatever that meant), and Crowley was utterly delighted to be brought up to speed by a very nice lady in her late forties with the actual purpose of the standing stones scattered across the Atlantic countries, namely to work as control towers to direct alien spaceships on safe landings along the rather obvious runways that stood at Carnac.

The entire tale had taken an even more hilarious turn when it prompted Aziraphale into an hour-long indignant rant about ancient astronaut theorists and why they all deserved to burn in hell until the human race faced its inevitable extinction and, if at all possible, quite a bit longer after that. It was rather difficult to hold in his laughter at Aziraphale’s bout of righteous fury over his eggs and bacon, and he couldn’t really be deemed responsible for eventually cracking up when a distracted mention about that interview had popped up that evening over the phone and subsequently prompted Aziraphale into a second rant that lasted throughout his entire break. Aziraphale had sniffled rather indignantly at Crowley’s obvious lack of sympathy for such serious matter, and bid him a peeved goodnight even as Crowley professed his undying love amongst undignified snickers.

Crowley was therefore a bit early as he strolled unhurriedly towards Aziraphale’s library, on Friday evening. He’d left his Bentley at his workplace, since no one really checked the coming and going of people in the annexed car park before midnight (the building housed a few offices with very productive employees that liked to work well into their evening, no doubt with various levels of willingness), and he didn’t need to pick it up until after dinner. Aziraphale was experiencing yet another craving for barely dead fish, and they were going to the same sushi restaurant Aziraphale had taken Crowley for their very first encounter, what felt like eons before. The place was in walking distance from both Crowley’s office and Aziraphale’s library, and the evening was a bit nippy, but all in all dry enough for a stroll and rather lovely. Crowley was in a rather good humour as he stood in front of Aziraphale’s library, shimmering with bright lights against the backdrop of the deepening night.

Crowley took a look at his expensive designer watch. It was barely seven, and Aziraphale wouldn’t be done for at least half an hour. Crowley didn’t really fancy standing there in the cold for so long, but the thought of finding a coffee shop to pass the time wasn’t particularly appealing either. He didn’t like the idea of sitting amongst a bunch of rambunctious twenty-year-olds, and the best that neighbourhood could offer were very blatant student waterholes. Not really his scene.

The only remaining option, of course, was the library. He hadn’t set foot into a library for at least a couple of decades, but he doubted they’d changed overly much during that time. Libraries were libraries, and books were books. They were also warm, and quiet. He could do with warmth and quiet. And he was quite eager to get a glimpse of Aziraphale in his element, happy and satisfied amongst more books that he could read in a lifetime.

The thought made him giddy. There was something impossibly soothing in the soft light of Aziraphale’s happiness, something that touched Crowley more deeply than he would’ve thought possible. And he was greedy, too–greedy to grasp bits and pieces of Aziraphale that he normally didn’t get to see, greedy for everything that made Aziraphale the man he knew.

He’d always been greedy, after all.

Crowley was jiggling the keys of his Bentley into his palm as he slowly picked his way to the main doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word of advice: do not ever joke with historians about ancient astronaut theorists. They will snap you in two like a twig.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, lovely people, with a new chapter written in no time at all! Maybe I’m getting out of this bloody funk, after all. I’m also ramping up the chapter count to 40. I hope this is going to be the very last time I’ll have to do so, because this story is just getting ridiculously long, even if the characters don’t seem in any way inclined to let me go.  
The usual buckets of love to [uponwhatgrounds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uponwhatgrounds/pseuds/uponwhatgrounds), who gifted me with yet another stunning [piece of art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25128289/chapters/61607227). I’m running out of ways to tell you how much I appreciate your gorgeous art, my dear, but please know that I drown in delight every time I get the AO3 notification. Your kindness means so much to me.  
I hope you all will like the chapter <3

The library was remarkably lively, given how late it was. Crowley had picked up Aziraphale from work often enough to have grown rather used to the steady streams of students crossing its gates at pretty much any given hour, but he couldn’t help being startled by the bustle and the noise. Especially by the noise. He’d walked in expecting to find some quiet, perhaps even a little too much of it, hanging heavy in the air like incense in a church, and there he was–being bumped into by rude, busy students that clearly had places to be and people to meet on either side of the turnstiles.

Those were also new. He couldn’t remember having ever used his ID to get into a library before, but apparently times were a-changing and now libraries were less accessible than the Tower. He froze, uncertain about his next step, which seemed to annoy the bustling students even more.

He felt silly, all of a sudden. A beanpole in tight black clothes trying to stare down the turnstiles in the middle of a busy hall. He probably stood out like a sore thumb, painfully, obviously out of place amongst that boisterous youth that still looked at the future like something that was waiting for them to happen, instead of something that was going to happen to them. Crowley could feel that endless energy, so bright it hurt, spilling from every single person around him like wine from an overflowing cup, rich and wonderful and too much for him to handle.

He didn’t belong there.

The thought hurt in a way that Crowley felt into his very bones, like a blow.

What was he even doing in that place?

He was making a fool of himself, that was what. He’d do well to turn on his heels and leave, before anyone noticed the twit in dark glasses.

He couldn’t be that lucky, though.

“Oi, lad! Aye, right ye. The laddie in sunglasses. What do ye think yer doin’, standin’ there?”

Crowley blinked, turning around towards the source of that rude shouting. It was a short, scruffy-looking man, sitting in a cubicle right in the middle of the neat row of turnstiles. He had an uneven stubble and looked rather unkempt, but that didn’t seem to disturb him overly much, from the way he was glaring at Crowley as if he were the one who’d forgotten to shower that morning.

“Aye, ‘m talkin’ tae ye, lad. Do we need help finding the way oot?”

Crowley arched a brow. He was feeling a little off balance, but he surely wasn’t going to allow a man with a very weak grasp on the concept of personal hygiene to run him out of anywhere. He swaggered his way up to the cubicle, brandishing his most devilish smirk.

“I was looking for a way in, actually,” he drawled, bracing his elbow onto the counter top.

The man, unfortunately, didn’t seem particularly impressed with his charms.

“Are ye a student here?”

“Not really, no...”

“Then ye got no business bein’ here at all,” the man declared, obvious satisfaction lurking in his pudgy eyes. “Door’s that way.”

Crowley bristled at being handled with such dismissive condescendence. His pleasant smirk turned into a frown, as he stared the man down from over the rim of his dark glasses.

“Listen. I’m looking for Aziraphale. I’m...” A beat, as Crowley frantically thought of something appropriate to say. He had no idea whether Aziraphale had even come out to his colleagues, and he realised for the first time that maybe ambushing him at his workplace could turn out to be a very, very bad idea. “I’m a friend.”

The way the bushy eyebrows residing upon the man’s forehead rose to his hairline told Crowley rather blatantly what he thought about the entire business.

“A friend, are ye now?” the man snorted, before making an actual shooing motion with his hand. “Awa’ wi’ ye.”

Crowley’s frown deepened. The more the man talked, the less Crowley liked his tone. The delight pouring out of Aziraphale every time he talked about his job couldn’t be faked, and Anathema had told Crowley that everybody liked him, but there was something unpleasant and slightly off with that gatekeeper. Crowley hoped that was the exception and not the rule, because the idea that Aziraphale could be disrespected at work made his blood boil.

It could also be that the man had an issue with Crowley himself, though. He wouldn’t be the first.

Perhaps he’d better leave. The last thing he wanted was to kick up a fuss at Aziraphale’s workplace and cause him problems, or even worse–embarrassment. Crowley didn’t think he could bear the thought of Aziraphale being embarrassed of him.

Walking in there had definitely been a terrible idea. Crowley could see that now.

He was about to turn on his heels and leave the smug gatekeeper to his issues with running water when a kind, if oddly upbeat, voice caught his attention.

“Are you Aziraphale’s young man?”

Crowley blinked up. There was a thin woman standing by the other side of the turnstile, clad in a frumpy dress and cradling a few books against her chest. She looked well in her forties, with way too much make-up on her face and a wavy bob of flaming red hair framing her cheeks, but there was a genuine friendly look in her heavily shadowed eyes.

The apparition, not to mention being addressed as _Aziraphale’s young man_ (which Crowley absolutely did _not_ like, no matter what his pulse had to say on the matter), threw Crowley enough to startle an honest answer out of him.

“Yes?” he blurted, not too sure whether that was a question or an answer.

Whatever that was, it seemed to please the woman to no end. She regaled him with a huge, slightly uneven smile, stretching her blood-red lips in a show of such earnest delight that Crowley was reminded for a moment of Aziraphale.

“I thought you might be. Aziraphale is a bit stingy on details whenever you are concerned, but he talks about you so often that something usually slips through the cracks. Whether he likes it or not.” The grin turned wicked. “Anathema, of course, has no such restraints.”

“I guess she doesn’t,” Crowley answered, amused despite himself. He wasn’t sure how he felt about Aziraphale talking about him to his colleagues, though there was a part of him that was unmistakably, undeniably pleased about it, preening like a peacock at the back of his mind.

Well. He didn’t need to worry about accidentally outing Aziraphale at his workplace, at least.

“That’s aw well and good,” the gruff man behind the counter grunted, very obviously displeased with the way the conversation was proceeding, “but he’s holdin’ up the queue. The laddie cannae just stand like a dobber in front o’ me gates ‘til his _friend_ comes out.”

“Oh no, Mr. Shadwell, we couldn’t _possibly_ allow that,” the woman replied without losing a beat, all but purring the rude wanker’s name. “You’d better let him through. I’m sure Aziraphale will be delighted to see him.”

Crowley shuffled his weight from one foot to the other. Would he? Crowley wasn’t so positive about that anymore. Suddenly, he was terrified to find out. But the lady was already discussing with the gatekeeper in increasingly aggressive tones, when cajoling had failed to deliver what she wanted, and eventually an extremely unhappy Mr. Shadwell was unlocking one of the turnstiles to allow him access.

“Well? Wanna a written invitation laddie, or are we gettin’ in?” he grumbled, when Crowley didn’t rush through the moment the gates were unlocked. Crowley replied with his worst withering glare, glittering baleful from over the rim of his glasses, and the man was smart enough to cower slightly at being on its receiving end.

“Come, Mr. Crowley, come with me,” the woman cajoled, gesturing at him to come closer. Crowley was vaguely surprised that she knew his name, though he guessed Aziraphale couldn’t very well call Crowley _his young man_ all the time when talking to his colleague about him (more the pity, really). And she must have certainly heard it from Anathema, if nothing else.

Crowley walked through the turnstile, leaving Mr. Shadwell’s hostile glowers behind.

“Aziraphale doesn’t actually know I’m here,” Crowley admitted, as they walked away from the entrance. “It was cold outside, and I thought... well. I hadn’t realised libraries were so difficult to get into nowadays.”

The woman let out a tittering laugh. She was wearing a perfume so sweet and strong it was nearly cloying, and yet it managed somehow to be far from off-putting. It suited her.

“Universities are quite jealous of their knowledge, I’m afraid,” she chuckled. “More the pity, really, but I don’t make the rules.”

Crowley merely nodded, sinking his hands into his pockets as far as his tight jeans allowed as he took a good look around. The place seemed reasonably new, sterile and functional, with walls painted an aseptic white and high ceilings. Nothing of the romantic notion of an old library, with stone arches and creaky wooden floors. Aziraphale’s flat looked more the part than his workplace, all in all.

The counters were in a corner of the main hall, a small oasis amongst the tall shelves and the crowded tables. The hall was noticeably quieter than the main entrance, but still bristling with more bustling energy than Crowley had thought was typical for a library.

There was a nervous young man behind the counter, but no sign of Aziraphale. The main hall, however, was fenced in by a few narrow archways, and a spiralling stairway led to the second floor. It all suggested that Aziraphale could be somewhere near.

“I’ll go find Aziraphale,” the woman offered, confirming Crowley’s suppositions, “he shouldn’t be too far. He has counter duty today. Poor Newton always tries his best, but he’s not very good with computers and the likes. And he’s just so hopelessly shy with customers.”

She had lowered her voice for that last bit, as though she was sharing a secret with Crowley, and her conspiratorial tone made him chuckle.

“Newton, eh?” he grinned. “Anathema’s dating a Newton.”

“And that would be the very man,” the woman chuckled, with a flourish towards the counter. “He’s a good kid. A bit nervous, but very sweet. He brings out Anathema’s best side, I think. Her kinder side.”

“’m not sure she has one,” Crowley drawled, lying and knowing he was lying. “But she seems happy with him.”

“And that’s what really counts, isn’t it?” the woman hummed, deceptively mild. “Aziraphale seems happy, too. Actually, I haven’t seen him so happy since Anathema introduced the two of you.”

Crowley was taken by surprise by that unexpected turn of the conversation. He had obviously underestimated the fluttering airy lady, if the shrew look she was regarding him with was anything to go by.

He ducked his head, unsure on how to answer that, and yet impossibly pleased by the idea that he could have such an impact on Aziraphale’s life. He’d never really made anyone happy before, not in any way that would last enough to be openly perceived. It was a nice feeling. An odd feeling too, subtly pervasive, like vines.

“But enough chattering,” the woman cheerfully added, cutting through the tense silence like a knife through butter. “I’ll go fetch Aziraphale for you.”

“No, wait,” Crowley said, suddenly uneasy with the idea of Aziraphale being forcefully pulled away from his work because his needy partner couldn’t wait another half hour to see him. “’s ok. I didn’t mean to disturb him at work. Didn’t think this through. I can wait.”

The woman tilted his head at him, and Crowley had the unnerving impression that she was looking straight through his glasses, seeing his defenceless eyes. He fought the instinct to step back. She seemed to know a lot already–she didn’t need to know that, too.

“Alright, my dear,” she answered, with a low, soothing voice. It startled Crowley, being addressed that way from someone that wasn’t Aziraphale. Just like he’d been taken aback at the very beginning by the warmth that Aziraphale seemed to put behind such a washed-out term of address, now he found jarring hearing those same words coming from anyone else’s mouth. “You can sit somewhere or take a look around. But let me tell Aziraphale you’re here. He’ll find you when he’s ready.”

After a brief hesitation, Crowley nodded.

“Alright.” He licked his lips, glancing around. “Thank you.”

The woman patted him gently on the arm.

“Don’t mention it.” She had already taken a step away, when she stopped dead in her tracks, a hand covering her mouth. “Oh dear, where are my manners? I haven’t even introduced myself. I am Madame Tracy. Aziraphale and I have worked here together for a longer time than I like to remember.”

“’s nice to meet you,” Crowley said, sincere enough to surprise himself. “’m Crowley. Just Crowley, no Mr. is needed.”

“And you may call me Tracy,” the woman offered. “I’ll go now, but you can ask Newton if you need anything.”

“Thank you.”

Tracy smiled at him, then she was gone, bringing her cloying-sweet perfume with her. Crowley thought about bothering the poor nervous kid behind the counter for the fun of it, but then decided against it. Anyone willing to deal with Anathema on a daily basis deserved Crowley’s respect. She was absolutely brilliant, but she wasn’t very easy to live with. Crowley couldn’t imagine what having her as a partner would be like. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

He ended up walking slowly through crowded shelves, peering at the orderly lines of books, and doing what he did best–observing people. There were so many of them, fluttering past him, flocking to the tables, sometimes gathered together in small groups chattering amongst themselves in hushed tones, sometimes alone, perusing the titles cramming the shelves like Crowley or sitting in a corner, pouring over some book. It wasn’t as quiet as Crowley had imagined it would be, but it was soothing somehow, being surrounded by people that didn’t get into each other’s ways while occupying a relatively close space. It was a feeling difficult to describe, in the way that being alone and not alone could coexist without excluding one another by definition.

Slowly, small details started to surface, too. Tiredness layered thickly over the bright excitement, and determination, and dejection. A tight group debating a topic, a girl surrounded by open books writing something on her laptop, a boy quickly picking his way to the counter with a bundle of books into his arms. A few students perusing their phones while taking a break from the books. And here and there, incongruously at ease amongst the throb of unbridled youth, of faces which still bore the last vestiges of their teenage years in their cheeks and their eyes, were scattered older people that did not fit the profile, people in their thirties, forties, fifties–even a few men and women that were pushing sixty, by the look of them. They sat alone or perused the books or took part into the lively debates, as though they weren’t the odd ones out, as though they had every right to be there, and couldn’t fathom why they shouldn’t be. It looked strange to Crowley, and exciting, and a tiny bit sad. Like an opportunity, and time long lost.

He hadn’t realised how deep he’d sunken into silent contemplation until a familiar voice yanked him brusquely back to the present.

“Crowley?”

He blinked in momentary confusion, before swirling around. And there was Aziraphale, in his soft, handsome glory, looking straight at Crowley with wide eyes from Tracy’s side. She hadn’t rightly gone and fetched him, perhaps, but she had surely tagged along when Aziraphale had decided to retrieve his stray partner from the bowels of the library.

“Angel,” Crowley answered, without thinking, and flinched at how intimate the endearment had sounded. One thing was playing it up for Aziraphale’s shite family, another thing was letting his co-workers in on something as intensely private as that.

Aziraphale, if his fiddling and general uneasiness were of any indication, seemed to think the same. It made something in Crowley’s stomach twist, to see Aziraphale so taken aback by the sight of him.

“I didn’t know you were coming in,” Aziraphale said, something slightly forced in his smile. “I hope Mr. Shadwell hasn’t bothered you overly much.”

“’s a right ray of sunshine that one, isn’t he,” Crowley grumbled, the humour in his voice so strained it was almost painful to hear, “but I got in, didn’t I.”

And he shouldn’t have. It would’ve been best for everyone if he’d known his place and didn’t barge into Aziraphale’s workplace like a bull in a china shop. That was why he didn’t have relationships. He always missed the mark, always messed up. How had Aziraphale put it? Too much, and too little. An old fool.

And yet, the shame he felt was only a tiny fraction of the devastating guilt that was crushing him at the thought of having made Aziraphale uncomfortable, forcing himself where he wasn’t wanted. Crowley hadn’t even _asked_. Who did that? Inconsiderate arseholes. Just because Crowley couldn’t care less about his work or what his colleagues thought of him, it didn’t mean that he had the right to force Aziraphale’s hand that way.

He was feeling nauseous.

“Yes,” Aziraphale answered, blinking slowly. “I’m glad you did.”

Such a sweet lie. Crowley couldn’t wait to hear Aziraphale explain to him very carefully and very gently how he’d completely fucked up. Aziraphale wouldn’t probably even be mad, just disappointed.

_Disappointed_. How cruelly that word twisted in Crowley’s queasy belly.

“Well, now, Aziraphale,” Tracy interjected, probably sensing the general uneasiness of the moment and deciding that stepping in was less atrociously awkward than simply witnessing it. “You hadn’t told me just how striking your young man was. He’s distracting all our hard-working students.”

It was the right thing to say, apparently. It made Aziraphale smile, the soft, private kind of smile that Crowley loved to a rather silly extent, and he relaxed visibly as he took Crowley in. Dejected as he was, Crowley could do nothing but preen under Aziraphale’s warm gaze, hands outstretched to grab every bit of approval he could.

Such a pathetic little thing.

(The words stung, like wasps, breaking the skin, but what startled Crowley the most was how long he hadn’t heard them whisper poison into his mind. Ever since Aziraphale had started pouring praises and affection over him, like a cascade, washing away everything else.

It was scary, and tragically sweet, to realise exactly the extent of Aziraphale’s influence on him and his life. Crowley knew that it wasn’t healthy, it wasn’t right, to depend on someone that much, even more so someone who loved him the way Aziraphale did. And yet.)

Aziraphale’s tender smile seemed to blast away the cobwebs, brightening up the world.

“He’s rather handsome, isn’t he,” he mused, something a bit more private than the public space warranted bristling subtly in his voice.

Crowley swallowed, feeling the heat burning under the skin.

“_He_ is right here, that’s what he is,” Crowley grumbled, trying and failing to keep his rioting thoughts under control. He couldn’t simply be tossed about like that, from dejection to arousal like a ragged doll on a roiling ship.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” Aziraphale chuckled, suddenly at ease, as he stepped forwards and took Crowley’s hands. His thumbs swiped subtly across Crowley’s knuckles, gentle but thorough. “Forgive me for being such a boorish partner. You’ve met Tracy already, haven’t you?”

Crowley was startled by the gentle touch, deeply tender and with a veneer of chasteness that hid quite effectively a subterranean current of eroticism, and realised that they hadn’t been together socially since the blasted wedding. He wasn’t used anymore to being at the receiving end of a proprietary touch that wasn’t any less proprietary just because it was covert. Aziraphale was brushing Crowley’s hand in a way that was almost entirely proper, and yet the heat behind that simple gesture was the same Aziraphale used to touch his naked skin. It was making his head spin.

“Yes, I’ve met her,” Crowley ground out, trying and failing to get a grip on himself. For a shuddering, sizzling moment, he remembered a very old musing he’d had at the beginning of their acquaintance, about whether Aziraphale had ever fooled around in his library, and whether he’d like to try now. The thought took an entire new light, as Aziraphale stroked Crowley’s knuckles with dark eyes in a quiet corner between the shelves.

Then Aziraphale hummed, squeezing his hands one last time before letting him go.

Crowley felt almost cold, without the proximity of Aziraphale’s body. He wondered with a burst of embarrassment how much he was letting on, as he realised that Tracy had been staring at them like a hawk.

“Oh, my,” she sighed, a naughty smile pulling at her lips as he watched them both with a calculating look and wicked glee, “I can only _imagine_ the faces of those evil witches from the Rare Books department as you show up at our Christmas party with him on your arm. I think they might actually die of envy. They would have it coming, too.”

“Crowley is not a means to win a few points in your imaginary rivalry between departments,” Aziraphale primly chided her, if with a spark in his eyes just as wicked as the glee in Tracy’s voice. “And I haven’t asked him yet. So, thank you for that.”

Tracy covered her mouth with her hand in a showy, deliberately ostentatious gesture.

“Oh, dear. I’m so sorry. I ruined the surprise, I guess.” She smirked at Crowley in a way that wasn’t sorry at all. “Please, forgive a chatty old lady. I’ve never been very good at holding my tongue.”

Crowley blinked, wondering for a split of a second if she had actually meant that the way the gleam in her eyes was suggesting, and turned a disbelieving glance at Aziraphale when he heard him laugh, openly _laugh_ in a _library_, at Tracy’s glib.

“Oh, we _know_, my dear. We all know.”

Crowley bristled for a moment at hearing Aziraphale call anyone else _my dear_, but his pout lasted just enough for Aziraphale to catch sight of it. He was rewarded with a wicked smirk, and Crowley looked away, realising that Aziraphale had somehow read his mind and knew all about Crowley’s little bursts of jealousy.

Then Aziraphale looked towards the counters, which were partly visible from where they stood, and sighed deeply.

“How terribly remiss of me, to leave poor Newton alone for so long,” he said, shaking his head, before turning to Crowley. Something a little uneasy flashed in his eyes again, quickly chased off. “I have to go, now. We’ll talk about this later. Will you be all right here on your own? I won’t be long.”

Crowley dipped his head. He wasn’t sure anymore about any of his previous assumptions, but he could wait alone for a while. He wasn’t that useless in the role of a functioning adult, however disastrous his track record was.

“Sure thing, angel,” he answered, once again using Aziraphale’s pet name without thinking and once again being gifted with yet another of Tracy’s delighted grins.

He waited with bated breath, wondering with almost solid dread if he’d made yet another misstep, but Aziraphale simply smiled at him.

“Wonderful. I’ll see you in,” a short glance at the modern clock mounted onto the wall, “fifteen minutes. Don’t wander too far off.”

There was a smirk in that last sentence, something that Crowley met with a scoff. Then Aziraphale was ambling away, taking his place behind the counter and helping Newton to manage the queue that had been steadily building up during the five minutes Aziraphale had spent talking to Crowley. The relief on Newton’s face could be seen from a distance.

“Poor Newton,” Tracy chuckled, “we’re all hoping that some of Anathema’s brazenness will end up rubbing off on him, but no luck so far.”

Crowley smiled distractedly at that, too taken with the sight of Aziraphale’s librarian persona taking the place of Crowley’s partner. He still looked approachable, friendly, even gentle, but there was something closer to the stuffy librarian Crowley had met an age and a half before than to the man Crowley had grown used to. It warmed him deep, to know that there was a part of Aziraphale that belonged only to him. And it was utterly fascinating to see him at work, calm and professional and very obviously enjoying his task.

“Students love him, you know,” Tracy said rather casually, following his gaze. “It’s not a very easy thing to admit, for a librarian, but I think he’s the absolute favourite.”

“Anathema told me the same,” Crowley answered, too taken with the sight to care overly much about what was coming out of his mouth. “Everyone likes him. He’s very lovable, she said.”

“Oh, he is, isn’t he?” Tracy purred, low and pointed, way too close. “Easy to love, that is. Don’t you agree?”

“Of course I do,” Crowley brusquely answered, before blinking himself back to present and realising exactly what he’d been giving away. He threw Tracy a nasty glare, which she received with unchequered glee.

“Oh, I hope you do know you are all the talk in our little kingdom here,” she snickered, before waving her hand into a fancy gesture. “Well, meeting you has been an absolute delight. We shall hopefully see each other again soon. Have a _lovely_ evening with Aziraphale, dear.”

Crowley blinked at her retreating shape, before finding enough wits to call after her:

“I am _what_?”

Another wave of her carefully manicured hand was the only thing he got in reply.

* * *

Aziraphale found him about twenty minutes later, wandering aimlessly through the shelves with increasing ease. Like a swimmer plunging into frigid waters, after the shock of that brutal first dive he’d slowly started to acclimatise himself to his new situation, and he was actually beginning to enjoy the place.

He was leafing through a copy of _A Tale of Two Cities_ when Aziraphale approached him, softly calling his name to avoid startling him.

“Crowley?”

Something pleased bloomed under his skin at the sound, and Crowley lifted his head from the book he was holding. The smile spontaneously pulling at his lips froze into a frown, as his keen eyes didn’t fail to catch a strain of unease to Aziraphale’s posture despite the thick woollen coat now partially concealing his lovely frame. Aziraphale was trying to hide it, but Crowley had grown to know him well enough to spot it despite his best efforts. Aziraphale wasn’t the only one able to read his partner well.

Crowley pressed his lips into a line, as he closed the book and put it back.

“Look, angel, I’m sorry,” he ground out, looking away. “I fucked up. You don’t need to feel like you have to take me anywhere. I get it.”

His short statement was met with a deep silence. Crowley forced himself to stand still instead of shifting his weight on his feet like a nervous schoolchild.

“What are you talking about?” Aziraphale eventually asked, stepping closer. Crowley refused to look at him, until he felt a familiar gloved hand softly brush his cheek. They were alone there, effectively hidden between the shelves, but the touch startled him nevertheless into looking up, meeting a pair of concerned blue eyes. “Darling? What’s wrong?”

“You,” Crowley blurted out, realising with mounting dread how that had sounded and adding quickly, “Me coming here like that. Without telling you, without asking you if that was alright. ‘m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. Wasn’t the plan. And your colleague is very kind, but she forced your hand, I know that. You don’t have to take me to that party. ‘s fine. Wouldn’t want to go anyway.”

The last bit had been a blatant lie, and Crowley was fairly sure even Aziraphale knew that. Something seemed to shift into Aziraphale’s face, though, some flicker of an expression, and then there was chagrin shimmering in his blue eyes, honest and deeply felt.

“Oh, my dear, _no_,” he said, stepping closer and letting go of Crowley’s cheek only to grasp his hands. “I’m so sorry you felt that way. Of course it’s all right that you came here. I’m _always_ happy to see you.” A deep sight. “You daft man. As though I could _ever_ not be happy to see you.”

Crowley still felt too unsettled to look up, staring at their joint hands instead.

“I made you uncomfortable,” Crowley repeated, trying to make order into his rioting mind, trashing between his previous state of dismay and the shuddering steadiness he always felt when Aziraphale was close enough for Crowley’s skin to feel the heat radiating from his body.

“You did _not_,” Aziraphale sternly replied. “I didn’t expect to see you, that’s all.” A deep breath, then a long silence, the sort that Crowley knew better than to break. “I got a phone call from my sister,” Aziraphale added eventually, voice low and uneasy.

That was enough to make all the alarm bells in Crowley’s mind go off in a screeching scream.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, snapping his head up, every other concern neatly swept away. “Angel?”

Aziraphale sighed again. It was his turn to look away, now.

“Nothing’s wrong, love,” he murmured, the pet name impossibly tender and private on his lips. It sent a shiver down Crowley’s spine, to hear in public something that Aziraphale usually whispered while they were being intimate. It also distracted him rather effectively, and Aziraphale knew that. “Can we talk about that later? Here is not really the place.”

Crowley could understand that. He nodded, realising that Aziraphale had come so close that Crowley could actually feel Aziraphale’s breath brushing his chin. He let Aziraphale slowly lift his hand, swallowing thickly at the soft whisper of Aziraphale’s lips against his knuckles.

“I’m glad you came, darling,” Aziraphale murmured, eyes closed as he pressed lingering kisses between words onto Crowley’s skin. “You could never make me uncomfortable. I’m glad you met Tracy, too. And I did mean to ask you to come with me to the party, if you were amenable.” A flicker of blue eyes, the shadow of a smirk on those soft lips. “If you are not, of course, I will completely understand.”

Crowley huffed, feeling himself blush as his careless, panicky remark was used to tease him ever so gently.

“Shut up,” he grumbled, taking his hand back. He was such a silly old man, getting worked up over something that wasn’t even there. He should’ve known better. After everything they’d gone through, he should’ve known that the only thing capable of throwing Aziraphale into a funk was his shite family. Crowley wouldn’t rest easily until he knew what was going on, but at least he wasn’t panicking in sight of a possible rejection anymore.

Aziraphale’s smile didn’t waver at Crowley’s grumble, it only turned sweeter.

“Shall we go then, my dearest?” he purred, impossibly tender and just a little bit wicked. “The reservation is for eight o’clock, and I’d hate to be late.”

“Yeah,” Crowley grumbled, moving to lead the way. “Let’s go.”

He started at the delicate pressure of Aziraphale’s gloved hand against the small of his back, pointed and oddly proprietary, but he chose to keep his peace about it, and enjoyed the thrill that the touch sent into his very blood all the way out of the library. And if Mr. Shadwell shot them a particularly unhappy glare, on their way out, well. Mr. Shadwell could very well go fuck himself.

* * *

Sadly enough, the touch didn’t last long past the library’s main gates. Fondling his partner was apparently appropriate behaviour for workplaces but not crowded streets, in Aziraphale’s opinion, and Crowley missed the pointed, electric touch the moment Aziraphale pulled his hand away. His skin had reacted to it in the same way it reacted to all those little touches that looked innocent but that Aziraphale seemed to infuse somehow with a filthy, erotic undercurrent, and Crowley felt a thrill down his spine at the dim realisation that Aziraphale had wounded him up in public, without anyone being the wiser. Well, maybe not _anyone_, if the dirty glare they got from Mr. Shadwell for their trouble was anything to go by. But maybe he just disapproved of happiness in general, or homosexuals in particular. Crowley didn’t really care either way.

It took a moment for his cock to realise that nothing interesting was going to happen any time soon, and give up on its enthusiastic attempts at perking up and join the conversation. Crowley wasn’t really anything past half-hard, but his black jeans were too tight to make room for anything other than complete softness. The entire quandary made for a rather uncomfortable walk, which Crowley tried to endure by distracting himself.

“So, what’s this thing I heard about a party?” he asked, surreptitiously trying to readjust himself with no avail. At least his black pea coat was long enough to hide the worst of it.

Aziraphale chuckled softly, the sound muffled slightly by the thick tartan woollen scarf wounded around his neck and covering his face up to his nose.

“It’s the staff’s Christmas party,” he explained, an amused twinkle in his eyes. “We have one every year, right before the holidays. We book a couple of tables in a pub in Chelsea and have a few drinks. The University is usually graceful enough to cover the tab for the first round, but getting sloshed is on us.”

“Sounds fun,” Crowley mused, from his non-existing experience in drinking evenings as bonding rituals between colleagues. The paper couldn’t even bother to buy chairs that didn’t try to maim the staff on a regular basis, let alone pay them to get their kicks.

Aziraphale shrugged.

“It’s nice. I usually meet Tracy and a few others socially once a month, but with our shift system we rarely manage to get all together at the same time. The Christmas party is a lovely occasion to spend an evening together as a group.”

Crowley tilted his head, remembering a conversation they’d had a few weeks before. Aziraphale had mentioned meeting a few colleagues for a nightcap, and Crowley, as the clingy, miserable git that he was, had been hard pressed to keep his instinctive jab of jealousy under control. It felt better, he found, to have some faces now to associate with the notion. It made the idea of Aziraphale enjoying time with someone that wasn’t him easier to swallow, in a way, and the concept of _friends_ that didn’t include him less threatening. It was difficult to resent Tracy for stealing away Aziraphale for a nightcap, after all, or worrying that Aziraphale might like her company better than Crowley’s.

(Yes, Crowley knew how silly the whole thing sounded, and how childish, but he couldn’t help himself. He could and would control his possessive streak, but he’d had so little of his own growing up that he wasn’t really able to mute his primeval, instinctive fear that someone would come and take from him what he held most dear.)

The fact that Aziraphale _wanted_ him to meet his friends, of course, did wonders to smooth over the issue.

Crowley buried his face into his scarf, trying to hide his pleased smile. The sight of it would undoubtedly delight Aziraphale, but then he’d ask what had prompted it, and Crowley didn’t want to either lie to him or confess the embarrassing truth. Better keep the churnings of his unruly mind to himself.

It took Crowley a moment to realise that he’d lapsed into silence, instead of carrying on with the conversation, and that Aziraphale was bound to notice. Crowley threw a glance at him from the corner of his eye, and wasn’t particularly surprised to find Aziraphale equally distributing his attention between his companion and the busy road. There was a small frown etched onto his forehead, visible even under the brim of his fedora.

“I’m not going to let Tracy use my partner as a glorified arm candy, you know,” Aziraphale said, obviously trying to divine what was going on in Crowley’s head and reassure him in some way. It was unbearably sweet, and Crowley felt the warmth of that concern into his very core. “There is no love lost between departments, and being all together unfortunately means ruffling some feathers. Tracy in particular is very keen about keeping the feud alive and kicking.” A pause. “I did mean what I said. I’d love to have you there, but you don’t need to feel like you have to come. I will perfectly understand, if you’d rather skip the party.”

Crowley chuckled, low and hopelessly fond.

“I’m looking forward to it, angel. I want to meet your friends.” He ducked his head, the truth of that statement making him a little uneasy. “Besides, I’m not entirely averse to being your arm candy. I don’t mind the idea of you showing me off.”

Crowley felt a wave of heat rising from his neck, as he realised exactly what was coming out of his mouth without any real input from his brain. But it was too late now, and all Crowley could do was to hide the blush surely dusting his pale cheeks into his scarf.

How very him, trying to deflect attention from an uncomfortable truth by blurting out like a perfect twit an even _more_ uncomfortable truth. He was an embarrassment to himself.

His answer, however, seemed to please Aziraphale immensely. His eyes were twinkling, when Crowley dared throw a side glance at him, and his mouth was pulled into an eager, hungry grin.

“Well, then,” he purred, “if you don’t mind the idea, I would absolutely love to parade you around. Show everyone the wonderful man who has agreed to be on my arm for the evening.” A beat, as Aziraphale eyes brushed Crowley’s face like a touch, pointed and heavy and ferociously tender. “And quite a bit longer after that.”

Crowley was at a loss for words. He could feel the blush rise on his cheeks like a wave, something voracious and sharp and impossibly pleased thrusting his jaws open somewhere deep into his belly. His breath caught, throat clicking as he struggled to swallow. His cock tried to stir once more, and a delightful shiver rolled down his spine. He felt hot and cold and everything in between, and slightly dazed, the way he felt when Aziraphale was playing with him.

The gentle touch of a gloved hand on his cheek drew his attention, and as he saw Aziraphale’s huge, dark eyes searching his face he realised with a shiver that Aziraphale, too, looked exactly like he did when he was about to devour Crowley whole.

Then the moment was gone. Aziraphale glanced away, trying with an obvious effort to pay attention to the road, and Crowley forced a shuddering breath into his lungs. He felt light-headed, but the cool evening breeze and the people swirling around them helped a little to anchor him back to present. It wasn’t really the time, nor the place, to let himself be swept away like that. Not yet, at least.

Thankfully enough, he was not the one in charge of leading the way. They would’ve never made it in time for dinner otherwise, getting lost over and over in London’s labyrinthine streets while Crowley tried to force his stubborn cock and even more stubborn hormones into (ah!) submission. It’d been almost a week since Aziraphale had pulled Crowley into his lap and wrung a devastating orgasm out of him, and it had got to the point in which simply pulling at his cock under the shower spray didn’t really cut it for Crowley anymore. He missed Aziraphale’s touch like he’d miss a phantom limb, and he couldn’t really be blamed for going weak in the knees after a few words and heated glances.

It was Aziraphale’s fault, to be completely honest. He’d got Crowley used to certain standards, and now he couldn’t really complain if five days of abstinence had made Crowley _ravenous_ for his touch. He would’ve been worried about how heavily he’d begun to rely on Aziraphale bringing him off on a regular basis, if he hadn’t seen the same screeching hunger being dutifully mirrored by Aziraphale’s dark eyes.

Despite being rather inconveniently distracted, they managed to reach the restaurant right on time, and missing only one turn of the road at that. (Aziraphale had very obviously tried to breeze his way through his slip by pretending that nothing was amiss, but Crowley knew quite well what an untimely turned-on Aziraphale looked like, and there was a certain satisfaction in knowing that he wasn’t the only one being so easily affected.) Aziraphale held the door open for him, and Crowley smiled softly in return as he walked through.

It felt a bit strange to step into the dark-red room, thinking about how familiar the place looked, and how different everything else was. The cooking isle was exactly where Crowley remembered it to be, the friendly faces of the kitchen staff vaguely recognizable, if not clear memories in his mind. Their server was a waiter, not a waitress, but the friendly smile was the same, the delight at seeing Aziraphale unchanged. The waiter took their coats and scarves and led them to their table, promising he’d be back soon with their menus. The three men behind the counter bowed their heads slightly at Aziraphale as they walked by, and Aziraphale nodded in reply, exchanging a few musical words in Japanese with the cook.

Aziraphale had booked a small table in a rather secluded corner, this time, instead of sitting them by the kitchen aisle. He still pulled up Crowley’s chair, helping him to sit down, but the intimate, sweet smile flickering on his face was new, and it belonged to that thing they had now, that _relationship_ of them. His hand lingered on the hollow between Crowley’s shoulder blades for a brief moment before he took his seat, and Crowley registered the electricity of the touch like static energy misfiring under his fingertips. He felt heat sizzling under his skin, rushing up from his chest to his face, stifling and thick like honey.

Aziraphale looked unfairly alluring in the low light, a faint flush bringing colour to his cheeks, his blond curls made even more unruly by being squashed under the fedora. He was wearing a cream-coloured shirt under his tawny waistcoat, and his neck looked deliciously soft and just a tiny bit inaccessible over the primly made-up tartan bowtie. Crowley wasn’t sure if he wanted more for Aziraphale to push him down on his knees (how delightfully depraved!) or to peel away Aziraphale’s many layers until his hands met bare skin. Maybe both. He was a greedy bastard, after all.

Soon enough, the waiter was back with their menus. Crowley waved his own away, which gained him a pleased, darkly delighted glance from Aziraphale, who mirrored their first meeting by ordering oysters and sushi for both. He chuckled at Crowley’s vaguely improved chopstick skills, picking up a few morsels and holding them up for Crowley to eat. His eyes were sharp, almost unblinking, full of a pressing hunger that had nothing to do with the food. Crowley leant forward and closed his lips over the proffered morsel, holding Aziraphale’s pointed gaze, and felt a string of tiny, prickling shivers trail down his spine.

He was already a little light-headed as they neared the end of their dinner, and it had nothing to do with the Champagne. Aziraphale had only ordered one bottle, after all, and had very deliberately laboured to make it last. Crowley hadn’t really thought much of it, until Aziraphale had primly dabbed his lips after thoroughly polishing his plate and Crowley had pondered about topping off the meal with a nice nightcap.

“Should I call our waiter for some sake, angel?” he purred, from his cosy sprawl. The table chairs weren’t as high-backed as the ones surrounding the kitchen aisle, but they were nicely padded and Crowley’s arse appreciated the effort they put at seating him comfortably.

Aziraphale’s eyes glittered with unmistakable heat, as he watched Crowley through his lowered lids with a deliberately calculating look.

“That depends, my dear boy,” he hummed, slowly folding his napkin and smoothing it down onto the table top. “You know I don’t like to play with an intoxicated partner.”

Crowley blinked. He wasn’t drunk, he wasn’t even tipsy, but he was turned on enough that it took him a long moment to parse out what Aziraphale actually meant. He was letting Crowley decide where that evening was going, and asking him to voice his preference.

Crowley swallowed thickly. Planning sex in advance wasn’t exactly something that came natural to him, but if Aziraphale was asking whether he’d like to be played with a little that evening, well. Crowley surely wasn’t going to say no.

“I think we’re good to go, then,” he answered, a little embarrassed by how thick and rough his voice sounded. It didn’t seem to faze Aziraphale in the slightest, though.

“Very well, my dear.”

Aziraphale called over the waiter, and put up a hell of a fight before finally allowing Crowley to pay the bill with something hilariously close to a pout on his lips. Then they were out, and Crowley tried his very best to keep his wits about him long enough to lead the way to his car, instead of getting distracted by his very obviously eager cock, which definitely had no issues about being played with at some point in the foreseeable future.

They reached Crowley’s workplace about ten minutes later, thankfully enough without getting completely lost in the process.

The old building seemed to pique Aziraphale’s curiosity, for some reason. He looked around with way more interest than the anonymous, rusty place deserved, hands clasped neatly behind his back and eyes glittering in the low lights coming first from the streetlamps and then from the LED tubes fixed onto the ceilings. He looked deliciously, charmingly out of place amongst the walls of rough concrete and the uneven floors leading down to the car park, and Crowley suspected with something between gratification and relief that Aziraphale was just as fascinated with the aspects of Crowley’s life that didn’t include him as Crowley was about Aziraphale’s. It was a nice thought to have. It tempered a little that gnawing fear of being too clingy, too needy, too greedy, knowing that Aziraphale shared the intensity of his interest.

They had just settled into the comfortable, familiar seats of Crowley’s Bentley when Aziraphale spoke again.

“You know,” he said, aiming for casual and landing just a tiny bit short, “you could come with us for a nightcap, once in a while. After the Christmas party, I mean. If you wanted to see more of my friends.” A beat. “If you liked.”

The guarded, unmistakable hopefulness ringing in Aziraphale’s words grabbed Crowley by the throat, for some reason, and squeezed hard. He tried to swallow, and found with dull surprise that the motion came with some difficulty. Silly Crowley.

“I’d love to, angel,” he said lowly, trying to hide the wavering of his voice. He was too busy trying not to crash them both into a lamppost to look at Aziraphale again any time soon, but Crowley would’ve bet good money on the fact that the man was smiling that tender, private smile of his when a gloved hand reached over the shift and rested gently atop his own.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is… embarrassingly long. This story is embarrassingly long.  
I don’t think I’m thanking you all enough for being so sweet to me with your wonderful comments. I’m constantly fretting about losing my readers along the way, with such a Behemoth of a story, and every word you drop after a chapter fuels my (admittedly a bit tired) muse. So, thank you. Truly. I do hope you will enjoy this chapter, too <3

Crowley felt a familiar wave of contentment hit him low and deep, as he followed Aziraphale into his flat. He was still getting used to the way the pervading warmth of the place washed over him every single time he stepped through the door, but the feeling was far from unwelcome. It warmed Crowley to his very bones, and somehow managed to drain a little that nervous, shuddering energy that had been gnawing at him as long as he could remember. Crowley wasn’t sure how much of that was the echo of Aziraphale’s presence shimmering between those wall and how much the friendly clutter of the flat itself, but he’d take it either way.

Crowley was so busy basking in that familiar feeling that he became aware of the soft smile clinging to his mouth only when he saw it mirrored onto Aziraphale’s lips. The other man had dutifully turned on the lights and locked up the door behind them, and was now standing still in front of Crowley, searching his face as though he wanted to commit the picture to memory. Then he took a step forward, sliding his hand to cup the back of Crowley’s neck and pulling him close for a kiss.

It was a chaste kiss, but Crowley felt it down to his toes. He could do nothing but tighten his grasp around the strap of his overnight bag and simply let it happen, allowing Aziraphale to control the pressure as he slotted their mouth together and captured Crowley’s lower lip ever so gently. The smile lighting up his lovely face was desperately sweet when he pulled back, and Crowley could feel the gentle touch of Aziraphale’s soft mouth onto his own for a long, lingering moment after the kiss had been broken.

“Why don’t you get comfortable, my dear, while I get the heating?” Aziraphale murmured, stepping back with a last gentle caress against Crowley’s cheek. Crowley tilted his head instinctively to chase the retreating touch, then ducked his head, a bit embarrassed by his reaction.

“Alright,” he mumbled, clearing his throat and looking away. He wasted no time in dropping his overnight bag in its usual place by the door (his stuff had its _usual place_ in Aziraphale’s flat now, how startling it was still) and slipping off his scarf, as Aziraphale disappeared into the kitchen. He could feel his skin _pull_ at the desperate need of being touched, and even if he was a bit uncomfortable with the strength of that yearning, the shame usually connected with his roaring, uncontrollable desires was muted in the background. He was starting to suspect that Aziraphale _liked_ to see him desperate, begging for his touch, and the pleasure he felt at pleasing Aziraphale drowned everything else–even the crushing weight of his own self-reproach.

He’d just finished hanging his coat and scarf onto the hanger by the door when Aziraphale came back. He looked so lovely in the soft lights that Crowley had to take a moment and simply _look_. Busy as he was taking off his coat in calm, measured little gestures, Aziraphale was not so focused on his task that he couldn’t spare Crowley a distracted little smile. It squeezed Crowley’s heart, the domesticity of it. He walked to the couch, in want of something to do, and decided to redirect his attention to the very vital task of sprawling his limbs in the most alluring configuration known to man. He was therefore wriggling onto the worn padding like a worm on a hook when Aziraphale turned around, regaling him with a vaguely amused look.

Crowley decided that such cheek didn’t warrant for a reply, and tilted his chin up with his best seductive smirk. He had opened his arms wide and hooked his elbows over the backrest, nicely showcasing his chest, and spread his legs in a way that was nothing but a brazen invitation. He couldn’t help himself from wiggling a little in delight, when he felt Aziraphale’s heated gaze trail up and down his displayed body, taking in with obvious appreciation the triangle of naked chest artfully left uncovered by the partially unbuttoned wine-red shirt or the way his skinny jeans clung to his legs. He let out a little huff when Aziraphale had the nerve of chuckling softly to himself before coming closer, but it was all forgotten when gentle hands reached down to pull off his glasses.

“Here he is, my handsome, darling Crowley,” Aziraphale purred, blue eyes dark and lovely in the soft lights, before taking the time to fold Crowley’s glasses and place them carefully on the top of his desk. Then he sat down in the admittedly narrow space left free by Crowley’s sprawling limbs, nicely fitting his shoulder into the hollow of Crowley’s armpit.

Crowley took the invitation for what it was, and wasted no time in wrapping an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders while crowding closer to nuzzle into his cheek. He was rewarded with a hand placed high onto his thigh, heavy and warm like a brand, and Crowley couldn’t hold in a shudder as he ducked his head to capture Aziraphale’s lips into a kiss. The pressure, the closeness felt exquisite, and Crowley hummed lowly into his throat as he kissed Aziraphale’s lovely mouth again and again, each kiss a bit longer, a bit wetter, until he was pushing inside his mouth, deep and thrilling, while Aziraphale shifted just enough to clasp a firm hand around Crowley’s nape and push the other between his legs, obviously inspecting how affected Crowley was by such a simple touch. After a long evening of steadily mounting pressure, Crowley wasn’t surprised by the quick answer of his body, and bucked hard into the touch.

“Oh my, eager, are we?” Aziraphale chuckled against his lips, low and purring. “My needy boy. Working himself up to such a state.”

Crowley groaned into the kiss, body answering to those loaded whispers like a galvanized frog. He was shivering in Aziraphale’s grip, the arm wrapped around those broad shoulders more like an anchor than a grasp now. He’d gone from holding Aziraphale to holding on to him so quickly he could feel his head spin.

“You didn’t ask for more drinks, so I’m guessing you were looking forward to some play tonight,” Aziraphale added, fingers tracing the hardening shape of Crowley’s cock, trapped against his leg by his painfully tight jeans. “Am I wrong?”

“Nope,” Crowley gasped, pressing his face against Aziraphale’s cheek and taking a gulp of overly warm air. He felt slightly dizzy, turned on so suddenly and so violently it ached. He needed Aziraphale’s touch so badly he felt like he’d die without, but it was a vague, directionless thought–a hand wrapped around his cock would be lovely, of course, but what he really needed was his physical presence, his proximity. He breathed him in, that wonderful mixture of sweat and skin and aftershave that made for Aziraphale’s unique scent, and felt something quieten a little into his guts, like a bristling cat being petted into acquiescence.

“Very well.”

The hand clasped around the back of Crowley’s neck tightened its grip, turning the touch heavy, deliciously proprietary, even as the delicate pressure against his cock disappeared. Crowley whined at the loss, but was gently shushed into silence.

“None of that now, my darling,” Aziraphale chided him firmly. “You know that negotiations should be carried out with a clear head, and you’re already wound up a little too tightly for my taste.”

“’m not _wound up_,” Crowley grumbled, as he nuzzled desperately into Aziraphale’s cheek and didn’t even bother to slow down the hungry roaming of his hand across Aziraphale’s way-too-covered chest. “’m perfectly sober, me.”

Aziraphale’s snort let Crowley know exactly what he thought about such bold assertion, but throwing him a vexed glower would’ve meant moving from his privileged position plastered against his body from knees to hairline, and Crowley wasn’t particularly keen on that. Besides, opening his eyes seemed a feat quite beyond his reach right then and there, and he wouldn’t have been able to stop getting drunk on Aziraphale’s scent if he’d wanted to.

“You’re pushing the line a little, my dove, but fine. Let’s see what we can do.”

A tender kiss against the top of his head, as Aziraphale tucked Crowley’s face into the crook of his neck. Crowley hummed happily at the shift. That was even better.

“Did you have something in mind for tonight, love?” Aziraphale hummed, effectively cradling Crowley against his chest. He was using the hand not currently wrapped around Crowley’s neck to caress his back in slow, even strokes, and Crowley felt himself relax under the touch, taking a little step back from the edge. He tried to think of an answer, and realised with some surprise that the fog swirling into his mind had cleared a little.

“Not really, no,” Crowley sighed, lazily nuzzling into Aziraphale’s soft neck. “You?” A beat, as Crowley realised how selfish that sounded. “I’m sorry, I’m always making you do all the work. I do have fantasies, I swear, it’s just...”

“Yes?” Aziraphale softly encouraged him, the soothing movements of his hand up and down Crowley’s back never stopping, never changing the rhythm.

“Well. We meet up, and the only thing I can think about is just having your hands on me.”

Crowley could feel himself pouting, but he couldn’t really help it. He was glad his face was currently buried into Aziraphale’s neck. He’d never quite found himself in this position before. He’d also never quite had to think about sex before, either, just do whatever felt right at the moment, but still. He’d imagined he’d be a bit better at it than simply turning into a whiny mess clinging to Aziraphale with blatant desperation.

His answer, or perhaps the grumbling tone with which it had been delivered, pulled a throaty chuckle out of Aziraphale’s lips.

“Well, I can’t really say I mind you being so eager, so desperate for touch,” he purred, voice low and rumbling and blatantly _hungry_, confirming every single one of Crowley’s suspicions. “And I don’t mind taking the lead. Obviously. So you have nothing to worry about.” Crowley was almost started by the gentle, lingering press of soft lips against his temple, the soft touch effectively shattering the raging intensity of the moment. “I ask because I like knowing that I’m satisfying your needs. I like the way it feels when you entreat for something and I give it to you. This is not a test. You don’t need to feel like you _have_ to contribute in some way. I have plenty of ideas of my own. But if something comes to mind, perhaps when you’re a bit less excited, let me know. I’d be delighted to listen.”

Crowley grumbled a little under his breath in response, subtly thrilled and impossibly soothed by the reassurance and a little resentful about needing it in the first place. The gentle motions of Aziraphale’s hand up and down his spine, however, made quick work of those few ruffled feathers, and soon Crowley was melting into his arms, thoughts scattering just a little at the incredible feeling of being held so tenderly.

“Use your words, Crowley,” Aziraphale gently rebuked him. “Did you understand?”

“Yes, fine,” Crowley mumbled, pressing his face even more tightly against Aziraphale’s neck. “What’s next, then?”

Aziraphale hummed, a pensive sound, as he scratched his short, manicured nails across Crowley’s scalp, eliciting a shiver.

“How do you feel about getting your lovely face a little dirty?” Aziraphale purred, steadying the roaming of his hands and simply holding Crowley against his chest. “Would that be acceptable?”

It took Crowley a moment to parse out his meaning, and then he was trying and failing to hold in a shiver, voice cracking slightly.

“You want to come on my face?”

“If you are amenable.”

Crowley swallowed convulsively, skin burning under his clothes. Whatever soothing feeling Aziraphale’s gentle hands had managed to bring forth, it was gone now, completely drown into the furious wave of need washing over him.

“Yes. Please. Yes.”

Aziraphale sighed at that, a deep, slightly uneven whoosh of breath.

“My perfect Crowley,” he murmured, something almost painfully sweet in his voice. “Thank you.”

Crowley kissed his neck, because there was nothing else that he could do, and that seemed to push Aziraphale as well over the brink. The firm hand against Crowley’s nape was back in place, and the other was sliding slowly down Crowley’s spine, but didn’t stop at the small of his back, this time. Crowley sucked in a shuddering breath as those sure fingers slowly pulled his shirt out of his jeans, then pushed it up, allowing Aziraphale’s broad palm to press against his spine.

“Do you remember your colours, dearest?” Aziraphale purred, caressing Crowley’s naked back in a cascade of sparks.

Crowley nodded, out of breath, before remembering to use his words.

“Green. Yellow. Red,” he dutifully repeated, voice rough and unsteady.

“Such a good boy, so wonderful for me,” Aziraphale purred, making him shiver. “And you need this so _much_. I can tell. You feel so tense, darling, wound up so terribly tight. My poor love. Look at you. You are shaking with it.”

Crowley could barely breathe, each syrupy word coiling tight into his guts, pushing him a little higher. That sticky fondness, like honey, pervading and as purposeful as an arrow. The eroticism simmering underneath was almost violent, flaming white-hot under the lacework of that unbearable tenderness.

“Ssh, none of that,” Aziraphale shushed him, rubbing his cheek against the crown of Crowley’s head. He was just only caressing the bare skin of his back, and yet Crowley was already so turned on it hurt, cock pulsing painfully against his thigh. “I’m here, now. You are my precious darling, and I’ll take such good care of you.”

Crowley realised he’d pushed his legs close together to ease a little the tension only when he felt a hand slip between his thighs, prying them open. He couldn’t hold in a stuttering cry, when that gentle, feather-light touch moved to the aching length of his trapped cock.

“Oh, darling, look at the state you’re in,” Aziraphale crooned, thumb pressing a bit wickedly against the crown of Crowley’s cock, yanking a sob out of his throat. “You must be hurting, my poor dove. Have you not taken care of yourself properly while you were on your own?”

It took Crowley a long, long moment to realise exactly what Aziraphale was asking. He was so violently turned on, so desperate for release, that stringing thoughts together was becoming increasingly difficult, like an impossible feat. Then he remembered a walk in the park, and what Crowley had carelessly promised.

_I could tell you. Every time I touch myself. Tell you when, and how. What I think about. How many times I come. Would you like that?_

There was just a tiny fraction of uncertainty in Aziraphale’s voice, but Crowley had grown to know him well enough that it seemed as clear as a bell to his ear, even in his altered state. Aziraphale was asking, but Crowley knew he wouldn’t press, if he didn’t get the detailed answer he was hoping for.

Crowley swallowed, realising with a shudder that he _wanted_ to give it to him. Not just because he knew it would please Aziraphale, even if that factored into it quite a great deal. No. He wanted to tell him because the thought of confessing those little acts of sinful indulgence turned Crowley savagely on.

“I... I did,” Crowley whispered, groaning at the gentle, cruel rubbing of Aziraphale’s thumb up and down the length of his aching cock. He could feel it pulse at the same thundering rhythm of his drumming heart. “I tried. But it’s not the same.”

“Not the same as what?” Aziraphale purred, straight into his ear. Crowley twitched helplessly under him, burning face buried into his neck. He was twisting the soft cloth of Aziraphale’s shirt into his fist, hanging onto it, but Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind.

“Not the same as being taken care of by you.”

“Oh, my darling love,” Aziraphale sighed, something shuddering slightly under the soft, steady hum of his voice. “You say the sweetest things. It breaks my heart that I wasn’t there for you when you needed it. Leaving you to fend for yourself. How heartless of me.”

Crowley whined into his neck, light-headed and dizzy, and yet present enough to hear a strange echo to those words, as though Aziraphale, in some way, truly _meant_ that. Not exactly self-reproach, no. Something else. Something a little like longing.

“Will you tell me what you did, my love?” Aziraphale whispered, voice charged and breaking just a little. “While you were all alone, tending to your needs without anyone to help you. Such a cruel thing to do to someone as lovely, as sweet as you are.”

It was so much. Every word seemed to coil tighter into Crowley’s belly, ricocheting into his burning flesh, pushing at his skin to break out. He felt hot all over, the unbearable ache of his cruelly trapped cock echoing into his entire body, like a seismic wave. He felt poised to the brink, heart drumming into his chest and shivers racking his frame, overheated and shaking, clinging onto Aziraphale for dear life.

He realised with a start that he could come just like that, straight into his pants and with barely a touch, if Aziraphale kept at it long enough.

“I used my fingers to open myself up, yesterday evening,” he let out, a strangled, needy sound. “Thought about... thought about you. Using that plug on me. I thought I could control myself, and, ah, I ended up making a mess of the sheets. Had to clean up after. I was so tired. But I cleaned up anyway.”

“You did so well, my love,” Aziraphale purred, igniting another shiver down Crowley’s spine. “I like neat boys. Did you touch your cock, too? Or did you reach your climax just with your fingers in your lovely arse?”

Crowley was going to die. Scratch what he’d thought before. If Aziraphale kept that up long enough, he’d get a stroke.

“No hand on my cock. Humped the mattress, like I did with that pillow of yours. I stroked myself under the shower, though. Straight after. Hurt a little, I was oversensitive, but I just, I couldn’t...” He swallowed, thickly. “I was too turned on. Once hadn’t been enough.”

“My hungry, needy boy,” Aziraphale purred, something low, something raw bristling in his voice as he slithered his hand up, leaving Crowley’s poor cock alone to yank the front of his shirt free, palming his chest. “What else did you do?”

“I stroked my cock under the shower every morning. Thought about you with me, fucking me under the spray. Me fucking you. Thought about you fucking my face. That was so, ngh, so good. Everything with you is just, so _good_. Best sex I’ve ever had. The way you touch me, the way you pay attention to me. I love the way you look at me. The way you talk to me. Can’t get it out of my head.”

He was panting into Aziraphale’s skin, surrounded by that soft darkness, by the familiar, soothing scent of him. He was only vaguely aware of what was coming out of his mouth. He was pretty sure he was only able to say those things because he was tucked safely into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, cradled tenderly by those strong hands.

A proper silver-tongued devil he was.

Either way, it did seem to be working, from the way Aziraphale’s breath was turning shallower, more ragged, the touch of his hands almost frantic.

“My beautiful boy,” he growled, low and almost painfully slow, as though every word had been dragged quite unwillingly out of his throat. “I do hope you’re not expecting me to let you leave any time soon. How could I? You are so impossibly perfect. You were made for me.”

Crowley whined, high and shuddering, feeling one split moment away from losing his head or coming untouched. Perhaps both.

“What else, darling?” Aziraphale whispered, something urgent shuddering in his voice. “Tell me. Tell me everything. I want to know.”

“Stroked myself in front of the telly, don’t remember when exactly, Tuesday, Wednesday? Can’t remember, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry...”

“Ssh, love, it’s fine. You’re all right. You’re doing so well.”

Crowley threw both his hands around Aziraphale’s neck, holding him impossible close. He couldn’t help it. Aziraphale pulled both his hands out from under Crowley’s shirt, merely cradling him to his chest, rubbing his cheek against the side of Crowley’s head.

“Tried to make it last. Played with my balls a little, my hole. The way you would. The way I thought you’d want me to. Thought about you sitting there and watching me, telling me how good I was, how lovely.”

“As I would.” A kiss, soft and devastatingly tender. “My perfect darling. What a vision you must have been.”

“Came all over my nightgown. Black silk. I was so pissed.” A wet, shaking laugh. “Thought about you laughing at me. Not in a mean way, you’d never. Just laughing. That bright way you have. Like everything is wonderful. Like you’re looking at the most delightful thing you’ve ever seen.”

Aziraphale’s hold was so tight it was almost painful, but Crowley relished the strength of it, the way it felt, as though Aziraphale was bodily keeping him together. He felt almost drunk, high on that violent, nearly unbearable vulnerability. He felt vaguely disconnected from his body, and painfully in the moment at the same time. It was the strangest thing.

“My beautiful, darling boy,” Aziraphale crooned, something quaking into his voice. “My precious love. Anything else?”

Crowley tried to think, as difficult as it was.

“No. That’s all, I think.”

“Good. You did so well, my love. I’m very pleased with you.” Soft kisses pressed against his hair, like an April shower. “You told me everything. You’ve been so honest with me. So open. You made me so proud.”

Crowley shuddered, Aziraphale’s praise washing over him like a flash flood, pushing him under.

“You’ve been so good to me, my sweet boy,” Aziraphale carried on, voice turning pointed, purring. “I think you deserve a treat.”

“A treat?”

“Yes.” Something a little wicked chiming somewhere close. “You did so well, telling me everything, all those little naughty things you did to yourself, how needy, how hungry you were. I think you deserve to see some little naughty things of my own.”

Crowley swallowed around the lump on his throat. He tried to pull back, struggling a little with his heavy limbs and with Aziraphale’s hold, until he was set free with a sigh and he managed to wrestle his body into compliance. He moved back just enough to look up at Aziraphale. It took him a few attempts, the light blinding him something fierce, but eventually he managed to get a good look at that lovely face.

And what a sight it was. Aziraphale was wearing his hunger on every patch of naked skin. There was a high, dark flush to his cheeks, and his eyes had an almost feverish glitter to them.

“Naughty things of your own...?”

Aziraphale’s smile was as sharp as a blade.

“I think I’d like to touch myself, now. And I’d like for you to watch, until I reach my climax on your lovely face.” A gentle brush of slightly unsteady fingers on his cheek. “Is that something you might find pleasant, my love?”

“Yes,” Crowley gasped, barely letting Aziraphale finish the sentence before starting to nod with enough emphasis he felt nearly nauseous with it. “Yes. Please. God, please. Let me see.”

“Well, since you ask so prettily. It would be a monstrous thing to deny you.”

Crowley mourned Aziraphale’s steady arms around his frame the moment he let him go, but the itch of his skin under his sticky, tight clothes came back straight after, like a half-tamed animal free of the yoke. Aziraphale seemed to sense that, somehow. His blue eyes were dark and glittering in the low lights, as he looked Crowley up and down.

“Do you need to take off your clothes, dearest?” he purred.

Crowley nodded.

“Go ahead, then.” The gentle touch of a smooth hand across Crowley’s cheek, soothing the sudden unease trickling down his skin. “It would please me to look at you, sweetheart. I do love watching you baring yourself for me.”

And, just like that, the fire sizzling under his skin was back.

Crowley took a deep breath. Then he tried to pull himself to his feet, but he swayed, pathetically so, and had to reach out for help.

He’d barely tottered on his rubbery legs that Aziraphale was there, though, a hand on his hip to steady him. There was a look of deep concern on his face when Crowley looked down at him, still sitting on the couch.

“Are you all right, my love?” he asked, with impossible gentleness. “I could take care of that for you, if you liked.”

Crowley shook his head. As lovely as the idea of Aziraphale peeling his insufferable clothes off him was, Crowley wanted to make him happy, and if watching him sway and struggle his way out of those blasted jeans would make Aziraphale happy, well, Crowley would do his bloody best.

It took him a ridiculously long moment to get out of his shirt, but eventually he was pulling the blasted thing off him, despite the obvious attempt at hampering him maliciously devised by those evil cufflinks. Then it was the turn of his belt. It clinked loudly as it hit the ground, but Crowley couldn’t be bothered. He thumbed his jeans open next, but he had to lean on Aziraphale’s shoulders while Aziraphale pulled them down his legs to avoid ending up arse over tit onto Aziraphale’s blasted carpet. So much for a suave striptease. But the diminishing pressure on his straining cock felt heavenly, to the point that a deep, relieved groan escaped his lips as Aziraphale pulled the blasted things all the way to his ankles.

Aziraphale’s cheeks were apple-red as he looked up, mouth tantalising close to Crowley’s aching cock and blatant, blazing hunger sizzling into his eyes. But his gaze never wavered. He never looked once at Crowley’s cock, even though it was practically poking at his cheek through the dark silk of his boxers, and Crowley staggered back to get rid of his snakeskin boots and jeans, before dealing with his socks and finally with his pants.

Aziraphale, this time, did look at his cock. He leant back against the backrest, hands clasped above his belly, and Crowley simply stood there, allowing Aziraphale to rake his blue eyes up and down his naked frame. Crowley was so hard it hurt, his cockhead flushed an obscene shade of red and straining towards his belly, but Aziraphale wasn’t unaffected either. Crowley could see the bulge pulling at his fly, underneath the soft curve of his belly, and couldn’t help but lick at his lips in blatant hunger at the sight. The strain those poor trousers were under was positively pornographic.

“Turn around, love,” Aziraphale purred, something crackling beneath his artificially calm voice. “Let me take a good look at you.”

Crowley complied without a word. He moved slowly, mindful of his unsteady legs, but Aziraphale seemed to appreciate the unhurried quality of his performance, if the quiet praises tumbling from his lips were anything to go by.

“Look at you. Such glorious beauty. And you are so good to me, obeying to my every request. My perfect boy, so eager to please.”

Crowley was shaking badly, by the time he was facing once again Aziraphale and his unblinking scrutiny. He felt tired, tired of standing on unsteady legs, of forcing his body to obedience.

Something had to show onto his face, because Aziraphale frowned slightly, focusing on it. Crowley knew that it was concern marring the pleased ease of his expression, but he was slipping slowly under, where it became difficult to parse through the actual meaning of a negative expression. He shuddered, ducking his head.

“Darling, what’s wrong? Are you all right?” Aziraphale asked, in a tone of voice that demanded an answer. It pierced through the fog slowly creeping into Crowley’s mind, startling an answer out of him.

“’m tired. ‘s so difficult to stand.”

“Of course, my dove. How remiss, how terribly selfish of me,” crooned Aziraphale, in his sweetest voice. It did wonder to soothe Crowley’s bristling nerves. He felt himself relax, trembling muscles unclenching. He watched with hazy eyes as Aziraphale spread his legs wider and placed a cushion between his feet, then patted his thigh. “Come here, love. You’ve been so good to me, so wonderful. You deserve some rest.”

It was difficult to walk with such an aching, painful hard-on bobbing gracelessly between his legs, but Aziraphale had stretched out both his hands towards Crowley, and Crowley was reaching out for him with barely a thought. Aziraphale’s hold felt divine against his cold, shaking hands, and Crowley felt the warmth of him wash all over him as Aziraphale tenderly helped him down.

The cushion was soft under his knees, and Crowley took a moment to breathe in Aziraphale’s delicious scent, encased as he was between Aziraphale’s legs and resting his temple against Aziraphale’s strong thigh. His erection looked particularly delicious so up close, straining Aziraphale’s pressed trousers until the gleam of the zip peeked through, and Crowley stared dreamily at it, safe and relaxed and cared for. The feeling was only compounded by the touch of Aziraphale’s hand, lovingly petting his hair.

“Is that better, love?” Aziraphale murmured.

Crowley let out a sigh. Even his aching cock didn’t seem so urgent anymore.

“Yes.”

“Which colour, Crowley?”

Crowley hummed, struggling a little to make order in his scattered thoughts before he could find the right answer. It took him a moment. He knew what Aziraphale was talking about, of course, but he’d never really asked before. Such an odd question. It sounded a little silly, even.

“Green.”

“Very good, my love.” Crowley basked in the warmth of the praise, then frowned, missing the touch the moment Aziraphale lifted his hand from his hair. “Shall we carry on, darling?”

“’suppose,” Crowley grumbled, struggling to pull himself upright. He swayed a little on his knees, and Aziraphale cupped his chin, peering carefully into his face for a moment before speaking again.

“You are too beautiful to slouch, my darling,” he murmured, just as tenderly, but with something a bit pointed lurking underneath. “Can you straighten up for me?”

Crowley considered his words for a moment.

“Yes,” he answered eventually, struggling to comply. His efforts were followed by a steady streams of delicious praises and few suggestions, coupled with the careful help of Aziraphale’s gentle hands from time to time, until Crowley’s back was ramrod straight, his knees spread apart at the perfect width to showcase his red cock, his chin high and his hands clasped behind his back, opening his chest wide to the inspection of those hungry blue eyes.

“Look at you,” Aziraphale said as he admired his work, with such a devastating awe in his voice that Crowley felt it in his very core. “You are gorgeous, my sweet boy. Absolutely stunning.” A beat, as Aziraphale searched his face. “Are you uncomfortable, love?”

Crowley took a moment to think it over. He could feel the strain of the position, of course, but it wasn’t really uncomfortable. It was easier to maintain than he’d have thought. And it felt soothing, in a strange way. As though it was the physical reflection of an order imposed from an external source, just like Aziraphale’s requests, helping him to make order in the scattered flocks of his hazy thoughts.

He liked it, he decided. He said as much.

Aziraphale’s answering smile, pleased and full of undisguised pride, warmed him up from within, like a bushfire under his skin.

“My darling boy. So perfect for me.” Aziraphale reached out, stroking his cheek, and it took everything Crowley had not to chase his hand as Aziraphale pulled it away. His eyes were heavy lidded as he followed the retreating limb, but they opened all the way as he realised that Aziraphale’s fingers were busy unbuckling his belt and unbuttoning his trousers. “Now, darling. I would like for you to keep that position until I tell you otherwise. Will you do that for me, love?”

Crowley licked his lips, hungry and shuddering.

“Yes.”

“Good boy. _Best_ boy,” Aziraphale crooned, unbuttoning his trousers and slipping his hand inside his pants, pulling out his cock. It was a bit wilted, but the tip was red and glistening. Aziraphale pulled the encroaching foreskin back to expose his leaking cockhead to Crowley’s hungry gaze, playing a little with it between swipes across his slit to gather the precome beading the blushing skin.

“See that?” Aziraphale hummed, voice almost conversational, only the slightest tremor running through it like a fissure betraying how heavily affected he was. “That’s you. I barely touched you. You didn’t even touch me, not really. And yet, look at me. Already so desperate. Quite unseemly for a Dominant, don’t you think? So little self control.”

Crowley grumbled between his teeth at the unfairness of that statement. It was patently untrue. He wanted to say as much, but words escaped him at the moment, busy as he was to devour the sight with eyes opened wide and to keep his posture, lest he were to disappoint Aziraphale with his own lack of control. It was difficult, though. The sight was mesmerizing, and his cock was aching again between his thighs, blood flushing down in an angry rush. He was so turned on he could feel it in his guts, in his balls. He clenched his hole, revelling with a shudder in the feeling of finely tuned nerve endings being engaged and subtly aroused.

“Do you like what you see, love?” Aziraphale hummed, cupping his own cock into his palm to offer it to Crowley.

It took Crowley two attempts to gasp out an answer.

“Yes.”

“Good. I’m pleased. This is supposed to be your treat, after all, for being such a lovely, obedient boy.” A low hum. “It’s hardly fair, however, that you get to see so little of me. You were so good. You deserve a little more.”

Crowley could hardly breathe as Aziraphale let go of his delicious cock, wriggling a little to pull his trousers and pants down enough to expose his balls. Hunger slammed into Crowley like a sledgehammer as he saw one of those manicured hands cup the fleshy sack and lift it a little, while the other pulled the thick cock out of the way.

“Is that better?” Aziraphale asked, sounding almost honest in his curiosity.

Crowley could barely nod, eyes fixed as they were on the heavy flesh Aziraphale was carefully massaging with his palm. Crowley had always loved the hairs covering Aziraphale’s groin, finer than any others he’d ever seen and delicately curled, of a blond so pale it looked almost white. He was close enough to make out the veins running along the sack, where the hairs were rarer, and the lazy pumps up and down the thick shaft had made Aziraphale’s cock go from half-hard to fully erect. It was a mouth-watering sight. The skin there was so thin and pale that it made all the blood rushing into the muscle stood out even more starkly.

“Can I touch you?” Crowley eventually ground out. He felt almost dizzy with hunger, impossibly turned on. He was so hard it hurt, and he was pretty sure he was leaking all over Aziraphale’s cushion. Again.

Aziraphale hummed. He was stroking his cock at an unhurried pace, but he was taking pleasure from it, subtly winding himself up. Crowley was drinking in every sweep of his stocky thumb across the slit, every twist of his wrist in the upstroke, every gentle teasing of the delicate skin under the flared head. He was making note of every touch, too. He was too spacey and ravenously hungry to be sure that everything would stick, but he’d try his best to remember. That was what Aziraphale liked, after all. He had every intention of commit it to memory and use it to best please him.

“I don’t think so, love. No.”

Crowley startled with something very close to shock. He wasn’t used to Aziraphale saying no to him. He wasn’t sure he liked it.

As a deep, shuddering groan escaped his lips, however, he was also not very sure he _didn’t_ like it.

Something of his internal struggle seemed to show on his face, since it prompted Aziraphale into a brief laugh.

“Well, I did tell you that I like to deny my partner, from time to time,” he chuckled, lazy and pleased, like a house cat. He seemed perfectly unbothered, but the speeding up of the hand stroking his cock hadn’t gone unnoticed to Crowley.

It was so difficult to hold his posture, to keep sitting straight with his hands clasped behind his back, when all he wanted was to _touch_. It had been easy at the beginning, but the more Aziraphale carried on with his ministrations, the more grew the strain. Crowley felt almost split between his body and the body in front of him, straining towards the latter while being mercilessly anchored to the first by Aziraphale’s request. It dawned on Crowley’s hazy mind that perhaps that was exactly the reason behind it, but he was feeling a little too dazed to do anything with that knowledge.

“What if I told you that I want to?” Crowley murmured, trying to hang on tightly onto his thoughts, before the need rising in his blood would scatter them again. His cock was aching so badly. He wanted to touch Aziraphale, to touch himself. Instead he stayed there, viciously grasping for control, trying to be good. Trying to _obey_.

The shudder trickling down his spine at the thought felt like an electrical discharge, nearly painful in its intensity.

“Hmm, nothing I hadn’t known before. You wouldn’t have asked if you hadn’t wanted to, after all.” A short pause, as Aziraphale studied Crowley’s face with naked, ravaging hunger shimmering in his pale blue eyes. “Unless you are telling me that you don’t like my request. In that case, you know I’ll stop. You know that I won’t be angry, if this is getting too much for you. Tell me, love. Is your colour changed? Think carefully about it.”

Crowley frowned, and tried his best. Was that really more than he could stand? He wanted to touch Aziraphale with such a deeply-seated hunger that its tugs were almost painful under his skin, and his cock was aching with need, but he wasn’t uncomfortable, not really, beyond the obvious physical discomfort. Being denied what he wanted was, quite obviously, making him even more ravenous for it, which he guessed was the point of the entire exercise. If that was the case, Aziraphale was truly doing a marvellous job.

“No,” he grunted, trying and failing not to pout. “Still green.”

“Very well, love,” Aziraphale purred, cracking up a notch Crowley’s sizzling need. “Thank you.” A beat. “Do you dislike my request, then?”

Oh, the bastard. He wanted Crowley to say it.

“No.” A short hesitation, and then: “This is supposed to be my treat, though. Bloody frustrating for a treat.”

Aziraphale startled at that, eyebrows reaching his hairline, and then laughed out loud. Crowley watched him, transfixed. He looked so beautiful like that, head thrown back, glittering mirth in his face, all the while with his cock blushing lurid red in his fist and his fingers lazy massaging the back of his heavy sack. The juxtaposition was jarring, and wildly erotic.

“Oh, my darling love. You are quite the naughty, rebellious creature, deep down.” A glimmer in those blue eyes. “Oh, well. I should perhaps punish you a little for your impertinence, but I’m weak, and you are entirely too precious to be punished. I think we could maybe reach a compromise.” A beat, as Aziraphale licked his lips. “Open your mouth.”

Crowley obeyed without hesitation, shocked by the wave of molten heat cursing through his body at the idea of being punished. Perhaps he would truly enjoy being pulled over Aziraphale’s lap and getting a good spanking for his trouble. And if being his usual abrasive self got him Aziraphale’s cock in his mouth, well... he could surely do that.

It wasn’t Aziraphale’s cock, however, that grazed his open mouth. It was Aziraphale’s thumb. The wave of blazing heat that washed over him at the feeling of Aziraphale’s fingers curling around the jut of his jaw while Aziraphale pushed his thumb between Crowley’s lips hit him hard, like an earthquake. Crowley almost came on the spot, so violently turned on he was shaking with it. He felt a ribbon of precome splash against his thigh, and it took him a disorienting moment to reassure himself he hadn’t reached his peak, even if it had been a close thing. Aziraphale too seemed quite speechless as Crowley forced his eyes open, taking in the figure he caught with his eyes fixed upon Crowley’s wrecked face and so still he was barely breathing.

“Oh, darling. My perfect darling,” Aziraphale gasped, hand speeding up in his strokes. He wasn’t toying with himself anymore. No need for it.

Crowley moaned at the sight, lips closing around Aziraphale’s thumb as he sucked dreamily on it. Aziraphale’s groan was almost deafening, and Crowley felt the pressure of that thumb on his tongue, deep and vicious, before Aziraphale hooked it behind his teeth and dragged Crowley’s head closer. Crowley almost lost his posture at the pull, but managed to keep hold on it, only bending over slightly to compensate the shift in the balance. He was even closer to Aziraphale’s cock like that, and Crowley couldn’t really say he minded. The scent of him was overpowering, irresistible, and Crowley found himself groaning around the thumb in his mouth, sucking at it and trying to use his tongue to stroke the underside. He was too distracted and too dramatically turned on to accomplish anything but a rather clumsy work, but Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind, if the gasps and groans spilling from his lips were of any indication. His hand was a blur over his cock, making Crowley’s cock twitch and ache in sympathy. Crowley felt something winding up tighter and tighter into his guts, hard like a fist, that ache of unfulfilled need taking place of pleasure, but pooling into his belly all the same.

He knew then, as Aziraphale pulled his thumb out of his mouth and told him to close his eyes, that he _could_ come untouched. A deep groan, low and almost painful in its intensity, and then Crowley’s lips were hit with a thick rope of come. Crowley kept his eyes closed, his mouth slack, as warm, sticky spurts landed on his cheek, the bridge of his nose, his brows. He took them quaking, swaying on his knees, but stubbornly keeping position, refusing to disappoint Aziraphale. Challenging his requests was one thing, but failing to obey them was another matter entirely. He’d done that once already, and didn’t care for a repeated performance.

He was charged like a battery, barely able to keep himself from shaking apart, as Aziraphale gasped loudly in the silence. Then he felt shaky fingers stroking his cheek, his brow, and Crowley was vaguely aware that Aziraphale was gathering his own come even before the trembling, adoring sound of his voice rasped into the silence.

“Open up, my love.”

Crowley obeyed, trying to keep his teeth from clattering and biting down harshly onto Aziraphale’s gentle fingers. He felt the pressure onto his tongue, his jaws forced to unclench enough to take in the girth of them. Two fingers, Crowley thought, almost dreamily. He sucked on them, relishing with something close to teary relief the taste of Aziraphale’s come. He’d missed it so. He cried out softly when Aziraphale pulled them away, body racked with violent shivers, and calmed down only a little when the fingers came back, a little more come gathered between them.

It felt like an eternity had passed, by the time Aziraphale was cupping his cheek, but in reality it probably hadn’t been more than a few minutes.

“Are you all right, darling?” he whispered, so impossibly loving. “You were so perfect for me, so wonderful.”

Crowley opened his eyes of a sliver. His skin felt tacky, his lashes sticky, but he trusted Aziraphale to have removed any stray rope of come that could get into his eyes.

“I need to come,” he whined, voice stuttering, as he shook and shook. “Can I come?”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened, as he instinctively looked down Crowley’s body.

“You _didn’t_?” he gasped. “I thought...” A beat, as understanding flashed into his eyes. “Sweet Lord. You are waiting for permission.”

“I’ve been good,” Crowley sobbed, brokenly, sounding wrecked and not caring in the slightest. There were tears gathering into the corners of his eyes, trickling down, and he didn’t care about those either. “I promised I would. I’ve been good, angel. Can I come, now? Please?”

“My sweet, brilliant, perfect Crowley,” Aziraphale gasped, voice loaded with such blistering awe that Crowley felt it pull at something deep in his guts, like a hook at the end of a fishing rod. “Of course you can. Come, my love. Come for me.”

And Crowley, with a broken, teary cry, did just so.

* * *

The first thing Crowley saw, when he opened his eyes, was the beige of Aziraphale’s trousers. He blinked once, twice, slowly taking stock of his body. He was still kneeling, presumably between Aziraphale’s legs, since his bare side and his cheek were pressed against the textured corduroy of his trousers. He was surrounded by Aziraphale’s scent, heavy and lovely and impossibly soothing, and there was a gentle hand rhythmically trading through the short hair at the back of his neck. He was still naked, but the protective cage of Aziraphale’s body was keeping him warm enough, as well as upright. He was leaning so heavily against Aziraphale’s leg it was a miracle it hadn’t given out on him yet.

He was also aching. _Everywhere_.

“Uuuugh,” Crowley grumbled, trying to straighten up. The hand in his hair paused its gentle stroking, clasping the back of Crowley’s neck instead, steady and proprietary.

“Easy, love,” Aziraphale hummed, low and tender and a little tired. “That was a pretty demanding scene we had. Take your time. Do you need anything?”

“’m fine,” Crowley mumbled, before thinking better of it and amending: “Aching a little.”

“Would you like to move?”

Crowley stirred once more, testing out his stiff, heavy limbs.

“Feel like I should, before I get stuck this way.”

The soft, low rumble of a laugh.

“And no one would want that.”

Crowley let his head loll back, finally shooting a lazy, toothy grin at Aziraphale. The other man looked just as tired as he sounded, but his smile was heartbreakingly loving.

“I could think ‘bout someone who wouldn’t mind it one bit,” Crowley drawled, turning his head just enough to nuzzle into Aziraphale’s thigh. Aziraphale had taken the time to tuck himself back into his pants, but the buttons were still unmade, the pants hanging open.

His hand was so very gentle as he stroked Crowley’s cheek.

“You are indeed rather fetching on your knees, but I find myself quite enamoured with the entirety of you.”

Crowley snorted softly.

“You old romantic,” he chuckled, before trying to get up. His limbs hadn’t quite got the memo, however. Crowley swayed wildly on his feet, and would’ve fallen on his arse if Aziraphale hadn’t promptly grasped his side to steady him.

“Slowly, darling boy. Come here.”

Crowley wasn’t particularly happy about his body being all slow and lazy and taking advantage of Aziraphale’s fussiness, but he couldn’t really say he minded being gently lowered onto the couch and gathered into Aziraphale’s arms. Crowley nuzzled into his neck, stretching his aching limbs and forcing his cramped muscles to unclench, while Aziraphale’s gentle hand found its way back to Crowley’s hair. He sighed, relaxing into the touch, as Aziraphale pressed a kiss against the crown of his head.

“How long was I out?” Crowley mumbled into Aziraphale’s neck.

“A few minutes. Not long.” Another kiss, then Aziraphale started rubbing his cheek against Crowley’s hair. “I should get you a blanket, darling. You must be freezing.”

“You usually have one lying about,” Crowley drawled, not really in the mood to go anywhere. Then he realised how soft the couch felt under his naked arse, and let out a snort. “Did you sit on it again?”

“Er...”

“Such a poor attention to detail for a Dom. Shame on you.”

He couldn’t help but let out a snort at Aziraphale’s affronted scoff.

“Yes, well. Forgive me for not thinking about the bloody blanket while you recounted in great details all the naughty things you did to yourself during the past week.”

The snort turned into a full laugh at that, so deeply felt that it left him shaking against Aziraphale’s side. Crowley was so genuinely enjoying the banter that it took him a moment to realise that Aziraphale had tensed up against him, instead of joining Crowley in his easy, drowsy mood.

The laugh quickly died on his lips, as he peeled himself off Aziraphale and looked at his face. A frown took its place.

“Angel. You know I was kidding, don’t you?”

Aziraphale looked away. There was something a little too close to genuine hurt in Aziraphale’s soft features, something that Crowley didn’t like in the slightest. He reached out, cupping Aziraphale’s cheek in his palm and drawing Aziraphale’s attention back to him.

“Oh, angel, _no_,” Crowley said, pressing a gentle kiss against that unhappy lips. “It was wonderful. All of it. I loved it. And you were so good to me.”

Aziraphale’s voice trembled slightly, as he closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against Crowley’s.

“Yes, well.”

“Don’t,” Crowley tutted. “You were so bloody brilliant. I don’t usually come untouched, you know.”

He was actually still struggling to wrap his mind about that. He’d never come untouched in his entire _life_. Well, not past his puberty years, at least. He could still hardly believe it. But it was too soon to think about that, now. He was still drifting a little, floating in the soft post-orgasmic bliss of a truly earth-shattering climax. He was also not completely past the dizzying haze of being wound up so expertly for what had felt like ages.

That brought back to the forefront of his mind that he wasn’t sure how late it was, but since he didn’t really care (it was Friday night, after all), he dismissed the thought just as quickly. Aziraphale’s fragile mood was much more important than that.

Aziraphale’s embrace tightened slightly for a moment, before loosening.

“I’m sorry, darling. I should be taking care of you, not the other way around.”

“Why not?” Crowley grumbled, chasing after him and placing a soft kiss onto those soft lips. Aziraphale was smiling against Crowley’s mouth, as he pulled back.

“It helps me, taking care of you,” he explained, so very softly, hand curling around Crowley’s cheek. “That’s the reason aftercare is so important. It helps the submissive, but it’s also meant as a follow-up for the Dominant. Not every Dominant needs it, of course, but I do.” A short break, as Aziraphale took a deep, unsteady breath. “It’s... difficult, sometimes, to climb down the high of having this sort of control over someone. A power of that kind is a heady thing, which is why we need it, the rush of it, but being directly responsible for my submissive’s responses can be a little taxing. A bit difficult to let go. Which is why I need aftercare, too, to decompress close to my submissive. It makes the transition less brutal.”

That also explained why Aziraphale had reacted to that careless tease as though Crowley had slapped him square in the face. Crowley wasn’t the only one high on chemicals, after all, and Aziraphale had probably perceived Crowley’s joking remark as an open criticism, an accusation of thoughtless incompetence that had directly harmed his submissive.

The wave of guilt that came with the thought was so thick Crowley felt he could choke on it. He realised his mood was precipitating and held tightly on Aziraphale, trying to stop himself from spiralling.

He was brought back by the gentle shushing sounds Aziraphale was whispering into his ears, broken up by gentle kisses pressed against his cheek.

“I’m all right, love, we both are,” he was murmuring, calm and soothing and so desperately tender. “My sweet Crowley. You are such a loving, gentle creature deep down, aren’t you?”

“Oi, ’m _not_,” Crowley huffed, beyond affronted, dragging a low chuckle from Aziraphale’s lips.

“You are a terror, I know. An absolute beast.”

Crowley knew he was being teased, but he decided that Aziraphale’s droll tone didn’t deserve his consideration.

“That’s better,” he grumbled, rubbing his face against Aziraphale’s cheek. Aziraphale let Crowley cling to him for another moment, before gently pushing him away. In his altered state, Crowley would’ve been deeply wounded by the gesture, if it hadn’t been so gentle.

“I’m not going to let you freeze in my own living room, darling,” Aziraphale stated. “You can either let me get the blanket we’re sitting on, or we can move to the bedroom. What shall it be?”

Crowley thought a little about it.

“Bedroom.”

Aziraphale kissed his nose, before getting up on his feet.

“Good choice.”

Crowley’s legs didn’t seem as eager as the rest of his body to follow Aziraphale, and he wobbled rather ungracefully as he tried to get up on his feet. Luckily enough, Aziraphale was there to catch him, and Crowley found himself minding being half-carried to the bedroom by his surprisingly strong partner far less than he’d thought he would. If fussing over Crowley made Aziraphale feel better about himself, after all, who was Crowley to deny him? He was nothing but a gracious partner, after all.

He didn’t protest as he was laid down onto the covers, nor squirmed overly much when Aziraphale fetched a washcloth wetted with warm water and cleaned his grubby face first and his oversensitive cock after. Aziraphale took his time, too, making sure that no sticky place was left unattended on Crowley’s face, nor that pesky bits of come were clinging to the delicate skin of his groin and inner thighs or making a mess of his pubic hairs. Then he bundled Crowley up into a blanket and kissed his cheek tenderly, asking if he would be all right on his own for a moment while Aziraphale sorted out a few things and brought him a glass of water.

“Yeah, go, I don’t need a babysitter,” Crowley grumbled, feeling already a little forlorn as Aziraphale bent down to kiss his forehead and disappeared into the living room.

Crowley focused on the murmur of running water, coming on and off, and tried to divine what Aziraphale was doing by the sound of his heavy feet onto the creaky floor. He realised with a giggle that he was probably washing off Crowley’s come from the woodwork. He wondered vaguely if the couch at least had been spared, with the good thirty centimetres that separated the padding from the floor, but he wasn’t too sure. He wasn’t particularly bothered, either way. It was difficult to bother about anything, as he lay there tightly wrapped into a soft blanket that smelt like Aziraphale and Aziraphale’s favourite softener. His eyes were heavy, and even the ache in his muscles was slowly fading.

A gentle hand against his cheek startled him into awareness. He’d gone and dozed off, he thought vaguely, blinking open weary eyes.

Aziraphale was sitting by his side, glass in his hand. He’d probably taken the time to get rid of his shoes, since Crowley hadn’t heard him coming at all.

“Hey,” Crowley rasped, curling up just enough to press his forehead against Aziraphale’s thigh. “How long have you been away?”

“No longer than five minutes, love,” Aziraphale chuckled softly. “You must be tired.”

“Hmm. You wore me out,” Crowley grumbled, before trying to claw his way out of the blanket and push himself up. Aziraphale’s arm was immediately there, wrapping protectively around Crowley’s back and cradling him against his chest. “Thank you, angel.”

“I’m here, now,” Aziraphale murmured, gently fitting the curve of Crowley’s skull into the crook of his elbow. It was such a lovely, intimate hold, and Crowley didn’t try to fight it, simply allowing Aziraphale to move him about like a rag doll until he was satisfied.

Crowley’s eyes fluttered close at the touch of cold glass against his lips, and a thick, sticky calm washed over him as he handed Aziraphale free reign over the entire drinking business. The brush of careful fingers against the tender underside of his jaw sparked a shudder down Crowley’s spine, as he was urged to tilt his head back just enough to take the first careful sip. The warm fleece blanket was pooling at his waist, but even as his nipples tightened in the cool air, Crowley didn’t felt chilly in the slightest in the tight circle of Aziraphale’s arms.

“Here, my sweet, darling boy,” Aziraphale purred, low and gravelly, between judicious gulps. “You are so good to me. My best boy. Slowly, now, or you’ll choke.”

There was a soothing, almost hypnotic quality to Aziraphale’s voice. Crowley felt himself drift at the gentle, pointed lull of it, and shuddered helplessly when Aziraphale praised him for drinking up the entire glass.

“My brilliant boy, so sweet, so lovely. How _good_ you are.”

A quiet, far-off clink, as Aziraphale put the glass back down on the night table. Then he helped Crowley back down, world shifting for a moment as his back hit the mattress. Crowley barely had the time to feel the cold before the blanket was tucked once more around his shoulders.

“Now, be a dear and lie there. Are you still aching?”

“A little,” Crowley slurred, too relaxed to worry overly much about the way his voice sounded.

Aziraphale hummed, fishing for one of Crowley’s arms under the blanket and drawing it to his lap.

“Tell me if it’s too much, love,” he hummed, before digging his thumbs into Crowley’s hand.

It felt so lovely. Unlike Crowley’s rather awkward performance, it was very clear that Aziraphale knew what he was doing, and was hell-bent on making Crowley feel as good as humanly possible with his touch. He was cradling Crowley’s hand in his lap as though it was a precious, delicate thing, but his touch was firm. His thumbs worked away the ache lingering in the heel of Crowley’s hand with a pressure that was just the right side of forceful, before digging into his palm, and then moving to his fingers. Aziraphale carefully pulled at every single them, thoroughly massaging each segment and every joint before moving on to the next.

By the time Aziraphale was moving up Crowley’s arm, firmly manipulating his bicep and then pressing down onto the ball of his shoulder, Crowley was all but drooling into the pillow. He hadn’t even realised how much tension his body held on a daily basis, the pervading ache lingering into his muscles after keeping them clenched and ready for a fight-or-flight reaction that might or might not come at any given time, and having such tension being carefully massaged out of his flesh was destroying every simple attempt Crowley managed to put into crawling out of that blissed-out state of dazed relaxation. He was barely aware enough to mourn with proper heartbreak the loss of that heavenly touch, as Aziraphale carefully tucked his boneless arm under the blanket, but his entire body perked up when Aziraphale merely sat a little farther down the bed and pulled the blanket off one of Crowley’s legs instead.

“You do this much, angel?” Crowley slurred, only half-awake and barely lucid, as Aziraphale gently pulled his foot into his lap and dug his thumbs into the sole. Crowley groaned loudly at that, feeling the snap of released tension up to his nape, toes curling up in helpless pleasure. “This is ssssso good. Ngh.”

Aziraphale chuckled in response, low and warm. That unhappy, sharp look from before was completely gone from his face now, taken over by a content, almost drowsy expression. There was looseness to his shoulders, too, despite the utter focus he was pouring over Crowley’s body. He looked _relaxed_, for lack of a better word, sure and sated and happy, as he sparked ribbons of delicious electricity up Crowley’s spine. Aziraphale’s words about aftercare came back to Crowley unbidden, and he realised with a start that he was looking at it, at the effect that taking care of Crowley had on Aziraphale. He was winding Crowley down from his high, of course, but he was winding himself down, too. Extracting himself from the Dominant mindset one gentle swirl of his thumb across Crowley’s skin at a time, soothing bristling nerves with the physical proof that he could and would take care of every single one of his submissive’s needs.

It was a delicious, heady thought. Crowley felt it in his very core, resonating with the sparks of pleasure elicited by the skilful pressure of firm thumbs right beneath his toes, were his foot ached the most without Crowley even knowing it.

“I told you, I like taking care of my partners,” Aziraphale hummed, moving on to Crowley’s toes. “It’s been a very long time since I’ve given anyone a proper massage, but I like to think I’m not completely useless at it.”

Crowley groaned again as Aziraphale dug his thumbs into Crowley’s heel, before moving on to his calf. His lizard brain had hissed with a spark of violent jealousy at Aziraphale’s mention of pampering previous partners, but he felt way too blissful to cling to the thought for long. He didn’t mind overly much Aziraphale talking about exes, or even about sex with those exes, but his greedy mind apparently drew a line at hearing about such exes being worshipped over the way Crowley had come to consider his own personal prerogative. He was more jealous of Aziraphale’s attention than Aziraphale’s body, which wasn’t much of an epiphany to have, but that surprised him anyway. Not that he would appreciate Aziraphale’s body being within reach of anyone but himself, of course, but that was another matter entirely.

“You’re everything but, angel,” Crowley sighed, trying to show his appreciation with something other than gasps and groans. A difficult task indeed, since Aziraphale had slowly inched up Crowley’s leg, and was now massaging his very sensitive thigh. “But if you keep that up, we might have a repeated act.”

Aziraphale’s laugh was soft, but deeply amused.

“Well, I suppose it shall fall upon me to lend a helping hand, then, should you find yourself in such predicament,” Aziraphale all but purred, carefully tucking Crowley’s right leg under the blanket before switching to the other side of the bed and moving onto the left. Crowley scoffed at Aziraphale’s terrible pun, but his traitorous cock didn’t seem to find any fault in that sentence, since it gave an interested twitch from its nest under the soft fleece. If Aziraphale noticed, he said nothing about it, but there was a soft flush on his cheeks and a very wicked delightful grin upon his lips.

By the time Aziraphale had reached Crowley’s left shoulder, Crowley was more than half hard. His libido wasn’t what it used to be, but something about Aziraphale was apparently able to reach deep into his guts and wind him up like a toy.

Aziraphale definitely noticed, this time, and pressed a slow, warm kiss to Crowley’s palm.

“That looks like something that needs to be taken care of,” he said, low and rumbling, eyes shimmering in the low lights. “And I did promise, after all.”

Crowley swallowed thickly. He was drifting, so loose and boneless that the tension in his groin felt more like a delicious counterpoint than a pressing need. Which made the idea of lying there and letting Aziraphale calmly coax another orgasm out of his spent body even more delicious.

“Please.”

His shuddering voice prompted another swift kiss across his brow.

“Of course, my darling boy,” Aziraphale whispered, voice bristling with affection and something hotter, something deeper. “Don’t worry about a thing. Close your lovely eyes. Relax. Let me take care of you.”

Crowley took a deep, quivering breath, as the blanket was gently pushed up to his navel and Aziraphale crouched between his legs. Then his cock was swallowed into the wet, tight heat of Aziraphale’s mouth, and Crowley could do nothing but allow his tired body to experience the molten, lazy pleasure of being so lovingly handled. He relaxed into the mattress, closing his eyes, and focused on the feeling of warm lips and firm hands slowly coaxing yet another erection out of his spent cock. He felt himself harden in Aziraphale’s grasp, idle pleasure building up in a swirling tide deep into his belly. His soft, breathy groans were barely loud enough for his own ears, but he had no doubt that Aziraphale caught every single one of them as he held Crowley’s thighs wide open and bobbed his head up and down Crowley’s shaft in a maddening eddy of sucking pressure and filthy swirls of a wicked tongue.

His orgasm, when it hit, was nowhere close to the devastating climax that had got him off untouched in Aziraphale’s living room. It felt like being slowly drowned, waves rising up his chest to his head until he was completely under, struggling to breath as he twisted his fingers into the sheets and kicked a feet out in a punch of undiluted pleasure. He could have sunk his fingers into Aziraphale’s blonde curls, of course, but the thought of moving even an inch from where Aziraphale had so carefully tucked him didn’t even crossed his mind. He lay there, instead, gasping softly in the silence as he came into Aziraphale’s mouth. He’d tried to warn him, but Aziraphale had merely taken him deeper, swallowing Crowley’s spent around his oversensitive cockhead and pulling a weak cry out of Crowley’s trembling lips.

“There you are, my sweet boy, all nice and warm and taken care of,” Aziraphale crooned, pulling the blanket down onto Crowley’s legs and sitting by his side. His fingers were tender against Crowley’s cheek. “Did you enjoy it?”

“You bloody well know I did,” Crowley wheezed, not ready in the slightest to be wound up again so tightly straight after yet another orgasm. He felt drained to the core, boneless and satisfied and half-asleep. He felt like he wouldn’t be ready to move or to get another erection for at least a couple of decades, though he was well aware that Aziraphale’s presence would significantly shorten that amount, as far as the latter was concerned.

He cracked an eye open.

“What about you, angel?” he offered, because he wasn’t _that_ selfish. “Come here. Let me touch you.”

“I’m quite all right, darling,” Aziraphale shushed him, stroking his face. “I feel heavenly, in fact. I’m very satisfied with our play, and you, my dear, were magnificent.” A beat, as Crowley soaked up Aziraphale’s praise like a sponge. “It _is_ quite late, however. We should think about turning in.”

“What time ‘s it?”

“Close to midnight.” The gentle stroking moved down Crowley’s neck, a warm hand reassuringly clasping around his throat. “Do you need anything else, my darling love?”

Crowley swallowed under the gentle pressure, relishing the feeling. Aziraphale looked almost divinely resplendent, with the soft lights lit up right behind his head.

“I need to be close to you, I think,” he hummed, too drowsy to think of lying about it. “Take off your clothes and join me.”

“Lying about stark naked in December in this draughty flat of mine?” Aziraphale laughed. “We’ll catch our deaths.”

“Let’s get under the covers, then,” Crowley pleaded. “I miss you. I miss touching you. Please.”

“You do know that if we get under the covers we’ll very likely fall asleep, don’t you?” Aziraphale sighed, but another teary-eyed look from Crowley made his resolve cave in like a house of cards. “Fine. I don’t like much sleeping naked, but you’ve been so marvellous tonight that you deserve a treat.” A soft twinkle in those blue eyes, as Aziraphale cupped Crowley’s cheek. “And don’t you think I haven’t noticed how hard you always try to accommodate my preferences. I know you’re just humouring me with that sinfully tight sleepwear of yours, and I appreciate the effort very much.”

That was enough to stun Crowley into silence. He hated sleeping with anything on that wasn’t his bare skin, but he didn’t want to make Aziraphale uncomfortable, and that was his home, after all. His sleeping habits could take a little tweaking once or twice per week, it wasn’t that big of a deal. He hadn’t thought much of it, and surely hadn’t imagined that Aziraphale would remember something he’s said half in jest during their hellish weekend in the country. He should probably have, in retrospective.

“’s not a big deal, angel,” he grumbled, trying to shy away and not being surprised in the slightest when Aziraphale didn’t allow him to go anywhere, holding him still with a hand firmly placed onto his cheek. “Seriously. ‘s just some pants. I’ll live.”

Aziraphale tutted at him.

“It’s a kind, considerate gesture,” he told him, effectively cutting him short, “ and one I appreciate very much. So, if you want to sleep stark naked tonight, we’ll sleep stark naked.” A sharp, wicked smile. “I expect to find the experience quite enjoyable, all in all.”

Crowley scoffed at that, uncertain on how to answer.

“Fine, then. You get the first turn in the bathroom.”

“You go first, love,” Aziraphale answered, kissing his cheek. “I’ll get a few things ready while I wait.”

Crowley grumbled his assent, and only managed to sway for one long, stomach-dropping moment before regaining his footing and wobbling back to the living room to retrieve his stuff. He found Aziraphale already busy folding the blanket and pulling back the covers, when he passed through the bedroom, and realised how uncomfortably full his bladder was the moment he close the bathroom door behind his back. He took a long piss and washed himself up rather perfunctorily. He felt too drained and tired for a shower, still half in a daze and way too relaxed to do anything that wasn’t strictly necessary, and was pretty sure that they would end up getting all dirty again before they finally rolled out of bed. He used a washcloth on his groin and taint, just to be on the safe side, then washed his face and brushed his teeth before tottering into the bedroom.

The sight of a mostly-naked Aziraphale welcomed him back. Crowley grinned with utter delight at the body being slowly bared in front of him, currently clad only in a pair of tartan boxers and matching socks. The rest of Aziraphale’s clothes were lying on his armchair, neatly folded. Crowley let his eyes roam down the delightful line of Aziraphale’s back, the soft padding betraying just so the shift of deceitfully powerful muscles underneath, and traced with a spark of hunger the shape of his sturdy legs and thick arms, covered in a fuzz so light it was barely visible. He watched unabashedly as Aziraphale’s underwear joined the rest of his stuff on the armchair, gaze latching onto the delectable shape of his round arse. For a moment, the need to touch him, to slip his fingers between those soft cheeks and play with his hole, was almost unbearable.

“Oh, there you are, love,” Aziraphale greeted him cheerfully, turning around and baring to Crowley’s starving eyes the chubby line of his limp cock, resting upon large, soft-looking bollocks covered in the same white fuzz as his forearms. “Get under the covers. I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

Crowley mourned deeply the disappearance of that glorious body behind the bathroom door, but he did as he’d been told, and climbed into bed. It felt rather good, actually. The moment his back touched the mattress, a wave of exhaustion so thick it left him reeling washed over him, drowning even those last sparks of energy that had been keeping him going until now. He’d been already half asleep by the time Aziraphale joined him, curling up around his form and effectively engulfing him in his arms.

“Oh, this is lovely,” Aziraphale whispered, with a sigh full of satisfaction. The soft brush of his warm breath across Crowley’s nape made him shiver, bringing him back just a little from the edge of sleep.

“Told you,” he mumbled, wriggling a little until his arse fitted perfectly against Aziraphale’s groin. They were pressed together so tightly that not a single patch of skin on Crowley’s back was left bereft of the soft warmth of Aziraphale’s body, and Crowley relished the closeness with something close to yearning, something close to tears. “When people take me to bed they usually want to get me out of my clothes, you know, not into them.”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale snapped, tightening his grip around Crowley’s waist in a half-conscious warning. It felt good to know that Aziraphale could be jealous, too. “Those people probably didn’t care about you the way I do.”

“No one’s ever cared about me the way you do.”

It was out before Crowley could do anything about it, and for a still, hushed moment, Crowley felt the intolerable truth of it lashing at his skin. Because it _was_ true, utterly and devastatingly. None of his past lovers cared about him, not beyond a superficial involvement, and sometimes not even that, and whatever little interest his uncle had harboured for his orphaned nephew had never grown beyond some very basic efforts at keeping him clothed and fed. His cousins didn’t even bear thinking about, and his friends, well. Their ties had been superficial, easy to break, and not one had remained. His parents had loved him, maybe, but they’d been gone for so long. There had never been anyone in Crowley’s life like Aziraphale. If he were to leave, there would never be anyone else like him ever again.

In his altered state, the thought was unbearable. Crowley rolled abruptly into Aziraphale’s embrace and held tight onto him, face hidden into the crook of his neck. Aziraphale took that in stride, holding him back and touching his bare back in gentle, easy strokes.

“What’s wrong, darling?” he asked, with a growing note of concern. “Have I upset you?”

“No,” Crowley lied, tightening his grip around Aziraphale’s neck and desperately trying not to cry into his neck. “’s ok. ‘m just tired.”

His answer was met with a brief, painful silence. Then Crowley felt Aziraphale’s broad hand cupping the back of his skull, Aziraphale’s lips pressing against his forehead, the crown of his head. The touch was devastatingly tender.

“I’m sorry, love,” he whispered, painfully honest. “I’m so sorry.”

Crowley swallowed a sob and pressed his face against Aziraphale’s chest, firm enough that a small part of him thought ferociously that they could just melt together like that, disappear in each other, if he just pushed a bit harder.

He fell asleep to the sweet, soothing sound of Aziraphale’s voice, whispering in his ear, over and over, that he was loved, he was loved, he was loved. He was loved.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are absolutely incredible. I was completely blown away by the support I received after the last chapter, and moved to bloody tears. Thank you so much, truly, from the bottom of my heart. You are the best readers an author could ever hope for. And here is your reward: yet another monstrous 10k-word-long chapter written in record time. I truly hope you will enjoy it <3

Crowley woke up with his face shoved into a cloud of soft blond hair and a stray curl tickling his nose. He hummed under his breath and shifted slightly, rubbing his face against the pillow to try and scratch the itch.

The night before was a bit of a blur. He was well aware that a little bit of dusting would be more than enough to offset the sharp edges of those tangled memories, but he didn’t feel particularly inclined to do just so right then and there. He could survive comfortably the next few hours even without delving into his own mind to chase after unsettling mood swings and disturbingly vulnerable emotions. Best to leave those sleepy memories be, for the time being.

Trudging on the heels of those unwanted thoughts, however, was yet another memory that Crowley had all but pushed in a corner and forgot about in the mad swirl of their rather eventful evening. Although Aziraphale’s uneasy mood had quickly faded during their dinner, the man _had_ looked out of sorts when Crowley showed up at his workplace. There was still a tiny part of Crowley deeply convinced that dropping unannounced by Aziraphale’s workplace hadn’t been a particularly clever (or welcome) idea, but Crowley had begun to trust the man enough to take his reassurances at a face value. If Aziraphale had been truly uncomfortable with Crowley’s presence, he would have let him know.

That, of course, meant that whatever was going on had been probably prompted by the phone call Aziraphale had received from that horrible sister of his. His refusal to speak about it when asked and the crafty lack of any mention whatsoever about the issue during the entire evening did nothing but convince Crowley even more that something dodgy was going on, something that Aziraphale obviously wasn’t very keen on sharing. The thought hurt a little, but Crowley had grown used to the way Aziraphale’s family had twisted everything around them until there was no safe ground to tread, only various degrees of blistering heat lurking in the glowing embers.

They should talk about it. Crowley suspected that Aziraphale was not going to approach the subject on his own, which meant that it fell to Crowley to pick up the slack. He was ill-suited at best for the task, but he _wanted_ to know. There was a vulnerable, defenceless side to Aziraphale that seemed to be within exclusive reach of his family, a side that Crowley wished desperately to protect. But how could he do so, without knowing where the blow was supposed to come from?

Crowley let out a soft, quiet sigh, as he sank his face a bit more firmly into Aziraphale’s curls. He would have to ask. He had known he would have to ask ever since the subject had been broached, the evening before, but he had been unwilling to ruin the mood, especially after being forced to weather the gruelling seesaw of his own unbalanced emotions, and had pushed the issue aside.

Old, reliable Crowley. He could always be trusted for stalling in the face of an uncomfortable situation.

And how was that moment any different? Crowley knew well enough that he was about to shelve the problem for yet another bout of devastating intimacy, because he needed it, not for the sex, not for the pleasure of it (even if they made for compelling arguments), but because he felt at times like he couldn’t _breathe_ without feeling so close to Aziraphale their skins seemed one step away from melting together. And after the previous night? He needed to feel like that again, with impossible, bristling violence. He was a cowardly, selfish man, and he would once more push Aziraphale’s needs aside if that meant getting his fix. How despicable of him.

And yet. The hour was still early enough, judging from the dim light filtering through the curtains, and Aziraphale was fast asleep in his arms. What was the harm in enjoying the moment, drowsy and content, instead of worrying at those heavy thoughts like a dog with a bone? There was always time for self-reproach and shite families, it didn’t have to be just _now_. And there was something impossibly, devastatingly soothing in holding Aziraphale so tight, something that smoothed down his ruffled feathers.

Crowley nuzzled into Aziraphale’s hair with a slightly trembling sigh. Aziraphale’s bare body felt _amazing_ in his arms, soft and smooth even where he had no right to be. His round arse fit perfectly the hollow of Crowley’s bony groin, his round belly was the ideal perch for his hand. Even the fuzz on his arms and legs was cloudy to the touch, and Crowley allowed himself the idle luxury of revelling into that heartbreaking closeness, drinking in the feeling of naked skin clinging to his own. It was the first time they got to sleep naked together, after all, and Crowley vowed silently to himself to do anything in his powers to make sure it wouldn’t be the last.

It took a significant amount of willpower to stop himself from reaching down and cupping Aziraphale’s lovely cock into his palm, lazily appraising the thickness of it. He didn’t know if it would annoy Aziraphale, being woken up so early or in general molested in his sleep, and Crowley knew he was already pushing it with that sleeping naked business. But there was something deliciously, ferociously vulnerable in having all the naughty bits up for the taking, easily within reach, and Crowley thought helplessly that _he_ wouldn’t mind waking up to an idle hand playing with his naked body. He wouldn’t mind it one bit.

Food for thoughts. Perhaps Aziraphale wouldn’t mind either waking Crowley up in such fashion, and wouldn’t be so opposed in the future to more naked sleepy times. It was surely worth a try.

As it was, Crowley intended to make the best of the present situation. He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply Aziraphale’s unique scent and letting his conscious mind drift lazily into that wondrous feeling.

He wasn’t sure how long it passed, before Aziraphale stirred into his arms. Probably one hour or so. Crowley pressed his face into that cloudy hair even more tightly at the slow shift, the friction against his half-hard cock delicious. He’d been too sated and too drowsy to get a proper erection until then, but he was fairly sure that the situation would change quickly if Aziraphale started to squirm against his stiffening cock. Crowley was only human, after all.

“Morning, love,” Aziraphale hummed, reaching up to cover Crowley’s hand over his belly and tangling their fingers together. “Did you sleep well?”

“Heavenly, angel,” Crowley purred, nuzzling into the soft skin just behind Aziraphale’s ear, breathing him in. “What about you? Was this as terrible as you thought it would be?”

Aziraphale snorted softly.

“It does feel a bit... draughty, I must say, lying about with all the bits and bobs out in the open, but you kept me warm.”

“Sappy, angel,” Crowley chuckled, secretly pleased at the subtle praise. “And there are some unique advantages to sleeping with all the bits and bobs out in the open, as you said.”

“Oh? Pray tell.”

It was too tempting. Crowley ran his tongue along the shadowy place behind Aziraphale’s ear, curling around the shell.

“Easy access, of course.”

That prompted an amused snort from Aziraphale. Not exactly the reaction Crowley had been hoping for, but he did love to see Aziraphale enjoying himself.

“Oh, you wicked, _wicked_ boy,” he purred, seemingly reading Crowley’s mind as he carried on: “Should I presume that you wouldn’t mind be woken up one day by a hand between your thighs, then?”

That was a little too much for Crowley’s brain to handle, so early in the morning and with the delicious press of Aziraphale’s naked arse against his rapidly hardening cock. He rolled his hips (couldn’t help it, really) and stifled a groan against Aziraphale’s soft curls.

“That sounds about right, yes,” he gasped, feeling a stab of delicious pleasure sneaking up his spine.

That was apparently enough to make Aziraphale go quiet for a moment. Crowley was about to force his misbehaving body to stop molesting the poor man when he felt his hand being pried from the soft belly, and brought up to a slightly stubbly cheek. Crowley felt the brush of soft lips against his palm down to the soles of his feet, tender and electric.

“I’ll make sure to remember that,” Aziraphale murmured, low and thoughtful. Crowley couldn’t help but shudder at the promise nestled comfortably in that warm, rumbling voice, and ground his cock into the cleft of Aziraphale’s arse, gasping at the delicious friction. Aziraphale answered by pressing a string of kisses all over Crowley’s sensitive palm, and pushing back against his straining cock.

“_Angel_,” Crowley gasped, nuzzling into the soft cloud of white-blond hair. He hadn’t really thought he could get so hard so quickly, after the two spectacular orgasms Aziraphale had yanked out of him the night before, but he’d obviously underestimated what sort of havoc waking up with an armful of naked Aziraphale would wreck upon his already tottering self-control. Especially when Aziraphale was trying his level best to drive him insane by wriggling that plush arse against his erection as though he had every intention of milking out of Crowley orgasm number three without even using his hands.

“But that’s a matter for another time, isn’t it?” Aziraphale purred, nuzzling into Crowley’s sleep-warm palm. “My sweet darling. Look at you, how desperate, how needy you are.”

_Needy._

Crowley couldn’t help the trickle of uneasiness that came unbidden at that word. He had hazy memories of Aziraphale using it a few times the night before, but he’d been too dramatically turned on to register it fully, beyond the obvious delight that Aziraphale seemed to charge the concept with. But now they were bathed in daylight, where all the vicious edges stood out in sharp details, and Crowley heard echoes of unkind voices whispering the same word back at him.

_Clingy. Needy. Pathetic._

Crowley was fairly sure he hadn’t been lost into his own mind more than a handful of seconds, but that had been obviously enough to tip Aziraphale off somehow. Crowley felt him still in his arms, plush arse simply resting against Crowley’s flagging cock instead of actively grinding against it.

“Love? Is everything all right?”

Crowley hid his face in blond curls, trying to pick up the rhythm again.

“’course. ‘m fine, angel,” he mumbled, realising with a split of a second too late that if he really wanted to fool Aziraphale into thinking that nothing was amiss, declaring that he was _fine_ dry humping that delectable arse wasn’t really the smartest strategy. He wasn’t particularly surprised to feel the gentle touch of Aziraphale’s firm hand on his hips, staying the tentative grinding, or to see the delicate blue of those eyes as Aziraphale turned his head just enough to catch Crowley’s gaze.

“What’s wrong, love?” he murmured, craning his neck to place a gentle kiss upon Crowley’s lips. “Have I said something to upset you?”

Crowley had been expecting the question, but it still threw him in a loop. He could lie, of course, and say that nothing was wrong, or deflect a little, and simply admit that he disliked the word. He knew that Aziraphale wouldn’t press either way, allowing Crowley to share whatever was roiling and heaving into his mind at his own pace. Or he could say the truth, the stupid, humiliating truth, and hope that Aziraphale would understand.

There was something in his blood that _clamoured_ for him to choose either of the first two options, something old and mangled and cowered, spitting from a corner, but it felt inexplicably, inherently _wrong_ to lie to Aziraphale. His old deflecting strategies didn’t work anymore with him, and, worst of all, Crowley didn’t really _want_ them to. After everything they’d gone through, after everything they’d bared to each other, all the ugly, bleeding corners, lying felt like an unbearable sin, and deflecting a useless trick. Crowley wanted nothing more than to hide whatever that was under the carpet and forget about it, but there was a treacherous part of himself that craved the relief of unburdening his staggering soul from all those stones that weighted it down. A delicate, tender part of himself, ridiculously vulnerable, and yet armed with sharp teeth and a sharper bite.

Crowley wasn’t really surprised when it was that part, eventually, that won.

“When you say that, ah, that I’m... _needy_...” Crowley said, looking away, because he couldn’t do that and bear the weight of those loving, compassionate blue eyes at the same time, “it’s... difficult, for me. I’ve been told that before, you know. I want too much, need too much. I can’t monopolise people’s time like that. I need to get a life. No one wants a clingy partner. I tried to be better, but... Anyway. ‘s nothing, angel. Really. Just... bad memories.”

He closed his eyes at the touch of a gentle hand against his cheek. The silence stretched, and Crowley realised that Aziraphale would keep his peace until Crowley was ready to take whatever came next. He took a deep breath, inhaling Aziraphale’s soothing scent and eventually blinking his eyes open, taking in the unbearable tenderness of Aziraphale’s understanding eyes.

“I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean to bring back bad memories.” A brief, gentle kiss. “I won’t say that again, if it upsets you, but I want you to know that I’ve never meant it as a reproach.”

“I know, angel,” Crowley rushed to reassure him, “you’re not like that. You’re too kind...”

“Hush, darling. I’m not done.” Crowley felt the pull of Aziraphale’s fingers tangling up into his hair down in the pit of his stomach, an electric, heady sort of sting. He could do nothing but shiver, helpless and spellbound as he looked with almost unblinking focus at those clear, sharp blue eyes. “I’m not being kind. I’m not glossing over some imaginary flaw. When I call you _needy_, I mean exactly that. I’m saying that you need me, deeply and viscerally, with no restrain or control, and I can barely think with how violently arousing I find such concept.”

There was something biting, something sharp and raw and hungry in Aziraphale’s voice, now, as his bristling gaze bore holes in Crowley’s wide eyes.

“Do you have any idea what does it mean to me being wanted, being _needed_ that way?” Aziraphale growled, his grip on Crowley’s hair almost vicious, but never painful, not really. “I told you about my past partners, about Robert. How he called me controlling, overbearing, suffocating. About how deeply uncomfortable he was with this part of myself that I can’t turn off, I can’t ignore, I can barely hide. So, no. I don’t find you being _needy_ something that should be borne out of kindness. It’s something that I cherish, deeply, like I cherish the rest of you.”

There was something old and creaking and tottering in Crowley’s mind that was about to collapse, something dirty and festering that he’d kept from shattering onto the ground for decades, and without one single reason at that. He could see it, now. He knew that he would _feel_ it too, at some point, when he had enough time to digest it all, but seeing it, at that moment, was enough.

He closed his eyes, sinking his face in Aziraphale’s curls with a deep, shaking sigh. He was holding him so tightly against his chest that he worried vaguely he’d end up bruising him all over, but he didn’t care.

“I won’t call you that ever again, darling, if it upsets you,” Aziraphale whispered, voice soft and impossibly loving, “but I wanted you to know what it means to me, being loved this way. How deeply I appreciate it, how important it is to me. I understand how this level of involvement is not something that everyone might be comfortable with, but I am. It’s what _I_ need. And how wondrously, how impossibly perfect it is that’s something that you need, too. Don’t you think?”

“Yes,” was all Crowley could manage, soft and cracking, stomach lurching under the pressure and body buzzing with a hundred different sensory inputs. He wasn’t even sure if he was still turned on or if he just wanted to hold Aziraphale instead, his equally confused cock pressing up half-hard against that plush, lovely arse.

“Good,” Aziraphale said, relaxing in Crowley’s embrace and kissing his palm. “I’m glad that’s settled.”

Those words, for some reason, tore a wet chuckle out of Crowley’s throat. Aziraphale hummed in reply, but didn’t offer any suggestion about what was to come after. Crowley realised vaguely that Aziraphale was waiting for him to make his intentions known, about whether he wanted to carry on with that little spot of mischief or if he’d rather give it up and do something else. Unfortunately, Crowley had no idea either. He eventually settled for holding Aziraphale close.

He had no idea how long they stayed like that. Crowley was idly tracing the patterns of Aziraphale’s unfairly soft chest hairs with his fingers when Aziraphale’s gentle voice fractured the silence.

“Is everything all right over there, my dear boy?”

Crowley hummed against his hair, kissing his nape. It smelt faintly like shampoo, and more strongly like the delicious scent of Aziraphale’s skin.

“Yes. ‘s better now.”

“I’m glad.” A gentle kiss placed upon his fingertips. “Would you like to get up?”

An unhappy grumble left Crowley’s throat.

“Not really, no.”

“All right.” A deep sigh, as Aziraphale cradled Crowley’s hand against his heart. “We do deserve a lazy Saturday. We have nowhere to go, after all.” A beat. “Well, _I_ actually have to go to the loo. Nature calls.”

Crowley grumbled again at that, but eventually rolled away, freeing Aziraphale from his merciless grasp. He got a rather amused kiss on his brow for his trouble, but didn’t even bother to open his eyes as he listened to Aziraphale’s heavy steps fade away into the bathroom. The door creaked close behind him, muffling every other sound.

When Aziraphale came back to bed, Crowley wasted no time in gathering him into his arms.

“I don’t mind, you know,” Crowley mumbled into his white-tuft hair, as Aziraphale nuzzled into his neck. “You calling me... needy. I don’t mind, if it’s you.”

“I don’t aim for things that you _don’t mind_, dearest,” came the predictable answer, because Aziraphale was just hell-bent on proving to God and man that he was too perfect to be true, “I aim for things that you enjoy.”

“Fine,” Crowley grumbled, feeling his cheeks heat up, of all things. “I think I might _like_ being called that by you.”

“Are you sure? You don’t have to feel like you need to humour me.”

Crowley was definitely blushing. How bloody embarrassing for a man his age, truly. Yet, he soldiered on.

“I’m sure. The way you mean it, it’s... pleasant.”

It would take a while to properly purge the word from any other meaning his entire life had associated with it, but there was also a sense of savage satisfaction about using something that had been meant to hurt him for so long to his own pleasure. Like a giant _bugger off_ to all those lost, painful years. And there was something visceral, something thrilling in the way Aziraphale used the word, like a praise, like something that Crowley was doing well without even trying. He sounded so irresistibly pleased.

Crowley could feel something a tiny bit charged slither down his spine at the thought, and ducked his head, pleading for a kiss. Aziraphale was eager to indulge him, and even if he kept the kiss light and brief and mostly chaste, Crowley felt the reaching pull of it straight into his core.

“All right, then,” Aziraphale murmured, voice a bit rough as he stroked Crowley’s cheek with almost vicious tenderness. “My _needy_ boy. What is it that you’d like to do, now?”

Crowley nuzzled into Aziraphale’s temple, pointedly ignoring the shudder sparked by his pointed, hungry voice. He was almost there again, but not quite.

“Talk,” he hummed. “Talking sounds good.”

“And what would you like to talk about?” Aziraphale purred, planting a slow, purposeful kiss on Crowley’s neck. They were pressed together so tightly that Aziraphale had to feel Crowley’s growing interest in the proceedings, but he was once again letting Crowley decide–this time, if he fancied a little spice in their conversation or if he’d rather move on to a more neutral topic.

Crowley took a deep, shuddering breath. He’d been holding and stroking Aziraphale’s bare back for a while, but the touch was turning purposeful now.

“You choose,” he said, his words belied by the hand that was currently squeezing Aziraphale’s arse. The delicious way his plump cheek filled Crowley’s palm to perfection would never grow old.

Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully against the column of Crowley’s neck.

“Well, we have never really got around to discussing our last scene,” Aziraphale murmured, his tone sobering up. Crowley wasn’t particularly surprised by his chosen subject. Aziraphale always insisted on a follow-up, after their scenes, and he took it extremely seriously.

Crowley sighed, settling down some. It was a kind of talk that his body usually found rather fetching, but he always strove to be as clear-headed as possible when they started. He understood why that was necessary, but most significantly it was important to Aziraphale, which meant that Crowley would try his level best to comply.

“I loved it,” he said, nuzzling at Aziraphale’s temple, “you must know that. It was just... so good. Sex with you is always good.”

“Even the bit where I denied you?” Aziraphale purred back, trying and failing to hide the deeply pleased note ringing in his voice.

Crowley huffed. He’d all but forgotten about that, and yes, he was still a tiny bit peeved about being told no, when his health wasn’t on the line. But he couldn’t really say that he hadn’t enjoyed it.

“Yes, even that,” he admitted, if somewhat begrudgingly. He took a moment to collect his thoughts, before carrying on: “It was good. I don’t think I would like it as a regular occurrence or as the focus of an entire scene, but once in a while it could be... enjoyable.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Aziraphale thoughtfully answered. “Anything else you would’ve done differently?”

Crowley tried hard to think seriously about it. He was still unused to dissecting his sexual experiences that way, and was a little embarrassed at how heavily he relied on Aziraphale’s prompting. But there was nothing to do about that, he supposed. Aziraphale _was_ more experienced than him in this particular setting, while it was still something of a learning curve for Crowley. Patience, like trust, didn’t come readily to him, but he knew he’d get better in time.

“I think that’s all,” Crowley tentatively offered. He couldn’t think of anything he hadn’t enjoyed, or that they hadn’t already tried before, one way or another. Perhaps the bit about holding position, the restrain, but that tied up nicely with the being-denied part of the discussion, and Crowley thought they had covered it well enough. “Why,” he ventured, “is there something that _you_ would’ve done differently?”

The silence that followed was rather telling.

“Angel?” Crowley prompted him, when nothing came swiftly enough. He’d thought the scene had gone well enough. Had he done something wrong?

“Well, just...” Aziraphale muttered, making a false start, before trying again: “I shouldn’t have fed you my spent without asking you first. That was poorly done on my part.”

Crowley tried to hold in a chuckle, but with poor results.

“If you really think I wasn’t atrociously turned on by that, well, that means that I haven’t gone down on you nearly enough,” he drawled, before forcing himself to tone down the flirting a little and give the matter its due consideration. “I get why you’re saying that, but it’s done now. For the record, I love it. You have my permission to _feed me your come_ every time you feel like it.”

Perhaps he had used a little too heavy a touch on that, but he hadn’t been able to help himself. He was in bed with a warm, lovely Aziraphale lying naked in his arms, mostly erect and increasingly turned on, and thinking about kneeling naked at his feet while Aziraphale scooped up his own come with shaking fingers and slipped it into Crowley’s waiting mouth wasn’t helping much in the way of calming him down. He felt suddenly very present, very warm, and very hard.

From the stiffening cock poking with increasing pressure at the hollow of his hip, he wasn’t alone in that predicament.

“Duly noted,” Aziraphale purred, something growling low and heated just underneath the easy humour. “Now, is there anything else you’d like to talk about?”

It was his cue to ask about the phone call, Crowley was well aware of that. He was also light-headed and atrociously turned on, which made for a truly terrible combination in the realm of serious family talk. That unbearable need to be touched had reared its ugly head again, and anything else had faded into the background. He was suddenly desperate, suddenly _starving_.

“Not really, no,” he gasped, each hand nicely filled with a cheek of Aziraphale’s delectable arse and hard cock grinding against Aziraphale’s growing erection. He craned his head slightly, capturing Aziraphale’s lips in a deep, filthy kiss, licking the morning breath off his mouth until only the taste of Aziraphale remained. Aziraphale returned his kisses more sedately, but not any less hungrily.

“Such an insatiable, greedy boy,” Aziraphale whispered, nipping at his chin. “And here I was, thinking that our activities last night had left you well satisfied. I was obviously wrong.”

“I guess a little more attention might be needed,” Crowley gasped, an arousal so rabid it had teeth to bite warring against his ingrained knee-jerk reaction of shying away from showing exactly how much he needed just that–attention.

“Anything you want, my sweet darling,” Aziraphale purred, slipping a hand between them to get hold of their pricks. Precome and sweat eased the way a little, and the slide of his soft, wide palm was devastatingly good against the oversensitive skin of Crowley’s aching cock. He snapped his hips forward, keening at the feeling of Aziraphale’s prick catching against the underside of his flared cockhead.

“Such a desperate little thing you are,” Aziraphale hummed, sparking a ribbon of heat down Crowley’s spine. “You need so much, and yet you have been given hardly a crumble. No wonder you are so easy to wind up, so deliciously responsive to my touch. You have been ill-treated for so long, my love, neglected and ignored, that you’ve grown distasteful of your own needs. I won’t stand for that sort of behaviour.”

The heavy, sticky pressure of those words trickled into Crowley’s blood like wildfire, spreading into his frozen skin. He couldn’t stop the deep, shuddering groans tumbling from his lips, or the rabbit-quick snaps of his hips. He felt almost high, need and pleasure and that unbearable satisfaction at having his needs thoroughly met for the first time in his life winding him up higher and higher. He squeezed Aziraphale’s arse so hard it probably had to hurt, and hid his face in the crook of his neck.

“I will take care of you, darling,” Aziraphale promised, wrist twisting in the narrow space between their bodies. “I will bring you release again, and again, and again, until it’s too much and you will beg for me to stop. And then I will wring yet another climax out of you.”

It was too close, too violent, _too much_, and over way too soon. Crowley spilled between them with a sharp, trembling cry, and got to see Aziraphale sucking his come off his own fingers with twinkling, dark eyes before being rearranged to his side and having his thighs slathered up with lube. He let out a deep, satisfied sigh at the feeling of Aziraphale’s body pressed tightly against his back, which turned into a trembling cry at the low drag of Aziraphale’s cock against the tender skin of his sensitive thighs. He was still wound up too tight, but he relished the overstimulation, the sharp sting of being played with even after he’d reached his peak.

Aziraphale wrapped a careful hand around Crowley’s throat and cupped his spent, aching cock in the other, before asking him in a husky voice to press his thighs together. Crowley felt almost faint with maddening arousal as he struggled to comply, and gasped brokenly at the feeling of Aziraphale’s thick cock sliding forward into a slow, measured thrust. It was way too soon for Crowley to get hard again, but the palm gently cradling his cock turned into curious fingers playing with his loosening foreskin, pinching it, gently tumbling it away from the still-weeping slit, and Crowley’s body was wrecked by shivers that were hot and cold at intervals as Aziraphale sucked bruised into the sharp slope of his shoulders. The pleasure was so intense it was nearly painful, both the wrong and the right side of too much at the same time, and Crowley realised with embarrassing delay that he was keening and sobbing breathlessly as Aziraphale fucked his thighs in steady thrusts.

“Are you enjoying this, dearest?” Aziraphale whispered, expertly stroking Crowley’s balls before switching again to playing with his aching cock. “Is it too much? Do you need me to stop?”

The words yanked an immediate, almost panicked reaction out of Crowley.

“Don’t stop, angel, God, _fuck_, don’t stop,” he wailed, knowing that it _was_ too much and yet dreading the thought of Aziraphale letting him go after winding him up so atrociously tight.

Crowley was shaking so hard it took him a few attempts to push an unsteady hand behind him and grasp Aziraphale’s fleshy hip. He could feel the push and pull of muscles like that, the power lurking behind every merciless thrust, and yearned for a moment to feel that cock once again in his arse, hole clenching miserably at the thought. But the nudge of that gorgeous cockhead against the tender place right behind his ball was just as good, just as lovely, and Crowley cried out at the painful pressure he felt in his groin as his wrong-out cock staggered back into some semblance of stiffness.

“I won’t, love, how could I?” Aziraphale purred in his ear, slowing down his thrusts as he peeled back the foreskin from Crowley’s leaking cockhead. “You need this so much, you’re trembling with it. How could I ever be so cruel to deny you right now?”

Crowley sniffled, leaning his head against the sweet hollow of Aziraphale’s neck and pressing his throat against the delicious grasp of Aziraphale’s hand. He was surrounded by Aziraphale, kept in place and tightly held, and Crowley revelled in it, in the deeply-set feeling of being cherished and protected in the cage of that sturdy body. He didn’t really _need_ to be protected, a side of his mind was still very clear on the issue, but he felt vulnerable, wound up so tightly by Aziraphale’s skilful hands, and it soothed a primeval part of him to know that nothing bad could ever happen to him as long as Aziraphale’s body kept the world at bay.

“My darling boy, so pliant, so lovely into my hands,” Aziraphale rasped, trying and failing to keep a steady rhythm. It was so warm under the covers, stifling really, and Crowley could feel the sweat beading onto his skin, the slap of skin on skin deafening as Aziraphale fucked his thighs in quick, forceful thrusts. “And how good you are, trying so hard to get another erection only to please me. And it does please me, sweetheart. I’m so very proud of you.”

It was almost unbearable. Crowley cried and shook like a leaf in the strong hold of Aziraphale’s arms, as yet another orgasm was tenderly but mercilessly coaxed out of him. His cock hadn’t even had the time to get fully hard when he came, dribbling weakly into Aziraphale’s fist as Aziraphale snapped his hips in a handful of rabid thrusts before coating Crowley’s thighs with hot, viscous come.

They stayed like that for quite a while, simply enjoying the closeness as they caught their breaths. Crowley was panting so hard he felt an ache in his ribs, and was only vaguely aware of the breathless, soothing kisses Aziraphale was peppering onto the crown of his head. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d come twice in such a short time. Perhaps somewhere in his twenties, and nowhere near this hard. He felt like a live wire, leaking electricity everywhere, while at the same time one step away from melting into the mattress like a puddle. He didn’t seem to be able to stop the subtle tremors running along his body like waves, rippling his skin as he slowly climbed down from his high.

He mumbled in protest when he felt Aziraphale stir behind him, but the man was just reaching backwards to get a few napkins from the dispenser on the night table. Aziraphale shushed him sweetly as he settled back, pushing the covers off from their overheated bodies and cleaning them both up gently, if a little spottily for his standards. Then he pulled the covers back up and resumed his tight curl around Crowley’s sweaty back, cradling Crowley’s twitchy, wrung-out cock into his palm. Crowley whimpered softly at that flash of painful pleasure, too sudden and violent, and Aziraphale nuzzled soothingly into his cheek.

“You’re all right, my love,” he murmured, kissing Crowley’s temple. “We’re done, now. You were so good for me. Such a lovely boy, so eager to please.”

Crowley gasped at the praise, body wracked by dwindling tremors and mind hazy. It felt so good to be held, and there was something impossibly enticing in the gentle, possessive grip Aziraphale kept around his cock. Crowley felt like he could stay there for an age and a half and still feel no desire whatsoever to move. He relaxed, lying boneless in Aziraphale’s arms as Aziraphale placed a string of lazy, loving kisses against his hair and the back of his neck.

Eventually, however, other needs began to make themselves known–in particular, Aziraphale’s hunger. Crowley was a bit startled to feel the rumble of Aziraphale’s stomach against his back, and turned his heavy head just enough to throw him the best pointed gaze he could, given how dazed he felt.

“Well, it _is_ getting a bit late, my dear,” Aziraphale declared, a bit gruffly. “It’s high time we get some food in our bellies, I think.”

Crowley huffed a laugh, trying to find the strength to wriggle away from Aziraphale’s grip and finding himself even more securely held, the tightening grip around his cock something of a warning. It left Crowley breathless and light-headed, a shuddering heap of limbs in Aziraphale’s grasp.

“I can’t very well get up and make you breakfast, if you don’t let me go,” he weakly protested. Aziraphale was nuzzling into his hair, a strange, tender counterpoint to the strength of his hold.

“You don’t have to, you know,” Aziraphale murmured, between kisses.

“I know. ‘s nice, though. Taking care of you for a change.”

Aziraphale hummed against his hair, nudging Crowley’s cheek with the back of his hand until Crowley had turned his head just enough to get thoroughly kissed. Crowley sighed into the kiss, a little dreamily, and blinked open lazy, tired eyes when Aziraphale pulled back.

“Would you like the first turn in the shower, or would you rather stay here a bit longer?” he asked, affectionately pressing his face against Crowley’s cheek. Such a difficult question.

“Stay here?” Crowley mumbled. He got a low chuckle for his trouble, and then a deluge of gentle touches up and down his chest and legs and groin as Aziraphale kissed the slope of his shoulder and his neck. Crowley closed his eyes with a sigh, revelling into the attention, until it became a bit too clear that Aziraphale was getting rather sidetracked in his quest to tumble out of bed.

“Thought you wanted the first turn in the shower, angel,” Crowley hummed, catching one of Aziraphale’s roaming hands and bringing it to his lips for a soft kiss across the knuckles. Aziraphale huffed in reply, but stilled.

“This going-to-bed-stark-naked business had better not become a habit,” he grumbled, “or you’ll never get to work in time again.”

Crowley snorted.

“If that was meant to be a threat, angel, you really need to work on it.”

He got a sharp bite on his shoulder for his trouble, but his yelp turned into a huffing laugh as Aziraphale rather unwillingly slipped out of bed and tottered on unsteady legs towards the bathroom. Crowley got a lovely view of that plump arse before the door closed behind him, and settled with a satisfied sigh into his soft nest of blankets as he closed his eyes and lazily replayed that lovely view in his mind time and time again. He was sweating under the duvet, and everything felt stifling and sticky and overly warm, but Crowley rather liked that. He liked it so much that he’d slipped into a light doze by the time Aziraphale came out of the shower, and was gently brought back to awareness by a tender hand on his cheek.

“Your turn, love,” Aziraphale chuckled, sitting by his side. “Should I start preparing something while I wait?”

“Better not, angel, or who knows what I’ll come back to,” Crowley chuckled, struggling to wrangle his long limbs free from the tangled covers. At Aziraphale’s offended scoff, he added: “You can set up the table, if you want. Should be difficult even for you to burn the place down while you’re at it.”

“I’ll have you know that my tea and my cocoa do _not_ heat up by themselves,” Aziraphale grumbled, “but fine.”

Crowley was still chuckling to himself as he slipped out of bed, but soon he was too busy trying to stand on legs that felt like wet noodles to poke some fun at Aziraphale anymore. He was too focused on the simple act of walking about to get a good look at Aziraphale’s face, but he could’ve sworn there was a satisfied smirk on those lips as Crowley wobbled back into the room with his toiletries and a pairs of boxers and padded into the bathroom.

The room had been aired and the bed neatly made up, by the time Crowley was done with his shower. It felt incredibly good to be clean, especially where he hoped Aziraphale would be amenable to stick again his wonderful cock some time soon. He had shaved and washed his teeth and unrepentantly stolen Aziraphale’s shower gel, shampoo and cologne once again, and was currently revelling in the primeval pleasure of smelling like Aziraphale as he stepped out of the bathroom with still-damp hair and only a tight pair of low-riding black silken boxers covering his skin.

Aziraphale’s nightgown was lying onto the made-up bed, and Crowley smirked to himself at the obvious offer. He wasted no time in slipping into the oversized tartan monstrosity, belting it sloppily around his thin waist before going to hunt down a pair of socks from his overnight bag. Then he padded lazily into the kitchen, finding Aziraphale sitting at the set-up table with a book in his hand. He was perfectly dressed, as usual, in a pair of outdated pressed trousers and with a worn, soft-looking beige jumper thrown over a cream-coloured shirt and a dark waistcoat. He had foregone his tartan bowtie, however, and left a pair of buttons undone on his pale throat. Crowley was truly rubbing off on him, if Aziraphale had sunk so low as to allow such a scandalous display of skin at the breakfast table.

“What are you reading?” Crowley drawled, preening lazily at the appraising look Aziraphale fixed on him from over the rim of his ridiculously cute glasses. There was a pleased, slightly hungry smile playing on his lips as he moved his gaze up to Crowley’s face.

“_Crime and Punishment_.”

“How fitting,” Crowley snorted, starting to gather up what he needed. At least Aziraphale had made sure that no book was in dangerous proximity of the stove this time, and Crowley would be spared the outraged scold he’d got the week before for the unspeakable crime of lighting up a fire too close to a second edition of _Jane Eyre_. “And such a light read, so early in the morning.”

It was Aziraphale’s turn to scoff.

“It’s almost midday, actually. We did take our time to get out of bed.”

“Yeah, well. Someone didn’t really want to let go, if I recall.”

“That’s because _someone_ had insisted on going to sleep stark naked.”

“My, my,” Crowley snickered. “Such little control you have. How disgraceful.”

That got him a loud, peeved scoff, to which Crowley replied with a proper laugh. He was too busy looking after the three pots currently on the stove to turn around, but he could picture well enough the huffy look on Aziraphale’s face, so he decided to throw him an olive branch.

“Read to me?” he asked, tone turning sweeter. “While I cook.”

His offer was followed by a short silence, before Aziraphale’s soft, soothing voice rose clear and steady into the small kitchen. He was obviously picking up where he’d left off, but Crowley didn’t mind. He’d read the book years before, back in school, and remembered enough of the plot to have a vague idea of where they were in the novel.

“Evening was coming on when he reached home, so that he must have been walking about six hours. How and where he came back he did not remember...”

Crowley let Aziraphale’s calm voice wash over him, and if he was secretly smiling to himself at the burst of lazy happiness that cavity-inducing domestic moment sparked into his chest, well. That was no one’s business but his own.

* * *

The neglected problem of Michael’s phone call started to become more and more pressing, as they sat down to eat. Aziraphale had placed a random receipt between the yellow pages to mark the spot and balanced the closed book on the top of a nearby pile, before tucking into his breakfast with such a honest delight that Crowley had been both hard pressed to stop preening like an idiot for having been able to handle sausages and backed beans and to bring forth what he knew was a difficult subject. Not only he wasn’t sure how to ease Aziraphale gently into it, but the fact that the issue hadn’t been addressed for so long spoke rather clearly about Aziraphale’s unwillingness to discuss it, and Crowley was still a little uncertain about sticking his nose where he wasn’t wanted.

An indirect approach, perhaps, would be best. And Crowley had just the thing.

“Angel?” he called, distracting Aziraphale from a rather single-minded appreciation of his poached eggs. “Can I ask you something?”

Aziraphale blinked at him.

“Of course, darling,” he said, easy enough, but with something a little guarded lurking underneath. Crowley was suddenly really glad he hadn’t simply gone and dropped the bomb on Aziraphale unaware. “Anything.”

“You went to university,” Crowley started, a bit uncertain now on how to best broach the subject. “Cambridge, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale tilted his head at him. He was still guarded, but he looked more interested than tense.

“Yes.”

“How did you know?”

Aziraphale blinked, then frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“How did you know that you wanted to go to Cambridge? Or what sort of degree you wanted to get, for that matter?”

Crowley wasn’t stupid, or ignorant enough to be unaware of the reason anyone with the means of Aziraphale’s family would send their children to Cambridge or Oxford instead of the University of West London. But they could’ve just as easily sent him to study Political Science at Harvard, and Crowley wanted to know why Cambridge, instead, why Classical Studies. How did anyone choose their future like that, instead of simply taking what was offered? It was a mystery to Crowley. One he wanted to understand.

Aziraphale held his gaze for a moment, before looking away.

“I see.”

There was a little tightness in his voice, something that almost spurred Crowley to take everything back, to change the subject, but Aziraphale was carrying on before Crowley had the time to make up his mind.

“It wasn’t like I had much of a choice,” Aziraphale started, before cutting himself short with a sigh. “No, that’s not fair. I’m making it sound like it was an imposition. It wasn’t. I _did_ choose what I wanted to study. My motivations were perhaps not entirely my own, but no one had pressed me into that specific direction.”

It was such a huge, monumental thing to hear Aziraphale admit that his family had influenced him unduly, that all Crowley could do was to hold his breath as Aziraphale slowly went on.

“You know, my brothers and sister had made up their mind quite early on about what they wanted to do with their lives. Gabriel had started to prepare for admission to Johns Hopkins when he was twelve years old. Sandalphon wanted to be a lawyer like our father. Michael finished high school two years early, top of her class, and went off to Cambridge to study molecular biology. She was CEO of her own pharmaceutical company at twenty-five. And no one had ever even discussed the role of Metatron. We all knew he was going to inherit the estate, and off he went to the Cambridge Business School for nine years.” Another sigh, something a little uneasy and striped with self-reproach. “And then, there was me. I had quite a lot of interests, you know, enough to keep me busy for a lifetime, but no ambition. I told you about my mother. She had chosen a life in the academia, studied ancient history. No one of my siblings had really done that. They had all started out with the very clear plan of getting their PhDs and then moving on to prestigious jobs. I was the only one left, the only one without any direction in life. So I thought, well. I thought I could follow her steps. Make her proud, you know?”

Crowley regretted asking, now. Regretted stirring the muddy waters of Aziraphale’s childhood, bringing back to the surface the loneliness and the harrowing pain of never being enough. Crowley didn’t need to hear it from Aziraphale to know that his indifferent, detached mother had barely registered that her son had gone to college, let alone what he was studying there.

“Anyway,” Aziraphale carried on, with a deep, quivering sigh. “That was my reason. I went to Cambridge because everyone in my family went there, even Gabriel, before being shipped across the pond for his graduate studies. We didn’t really see much of each other there. We kept to ourselves. And I had some peculiar... pastimes I wasn’t very keen on my siblings to know.”

Crowley remembered which pastimes Aziraphale was talking about. No wonder there.

Aziraphale closed his little speech with a shrug.

“That’s about it.” He blinked, gaze turning a bit sharper as he redirected his focus on Crowley. “Why do you ask?”

It was Crowley’s turn to shrug and look away.

“Oh, you know me,” he answered airily, stuffing some rapidly cooling scrambled eggs into his mouth, “‘m the curious type.”

The look he got for his trouble let him know very clearly how little Aziraphale believed him, but he didn’t press, as Crowley had known he wouldn’t. He felt the easing of the pressure like ears popping during a climb, when Aziraphale finally glanced away with a sigh.

“I should probably think about going back, anyway,” he said, poking at his half-eaten sausage–an alarming sign if there had ever been one. “Get my PhD. I could do it part-time, perhaps. Keep my job at the library while I write it. I’ve never liked teaching, after all, and nowadays almost every interaction can be carried out through a computer screen.”

He’d said that with such an obvious, scornful distaste that Crowley couldn’t help but chuckle, and the soft noise seemed to lift the mood somewhat.

“You don’t?” Crowley asked, a bit surprised. “You work in a library. I would’ve thought that teaching came natural to you.”

Aziraphale scoffed, then threw him a rueful grin.

“Teaching was what put me off from a career in academia once and for all. You can’t really do paid research without devoting some of your time to sharing your knowledge with brilliant young minds, and I would’ve rather sipped on hemlock than droning on and on for years on end about Plato and his bloody cave. Can you imagine how _dull_ that is? Not to mention being ambushed with supervisor duties. The last thing I want is to waste my time checking ill-written papers.” A beat, as a light blush rushed to his cheeks. “I mean, I’m sure there are undergraduates out there who are perfectly capable of writing brilliant stuff, but...”

“You are a lofty, supercilious prig, no need to hide that from me,” Crowley snorted, prompting a peeved sniffle from Aziraphale. “I like you just the way you are.”

That seemed enough to deepen the blush on Aziraphale’s cheeks, even as Crowley was treated with a sullen glare.

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale grumbled, although he went back to his breakfast in a markedly better mood.

“So, why go back to the University at all?” Crowley asked, with a little shrug. “You have no intention of getting a job in the field, and I thought you didn’t like the place.”

That seemed to startle Aziraphale, for some reason.

“Well, no, I don’t. But, you know. I took pains to go through a bachelor’s and a master’s, after all. Getting a PhD seems like the next logical step.”

“Says who?” Crowley pressed on, throwing Aziraphale a hard glare. “And don’t tell me those tossers of your siblings.”

“Language, dear,” Aziraphale scolded him automatically. “They are my family.”

The warning tone did nothing to deter Crowley. That was too important to shy away from, too important to let go, even if he knew they were encroaching dangerous territory.

“Yes, well. We know what _they_ want you to do. What do _you_ want?”

The question seemed to take Aziraphale unaware. He stared at Crowley, utterly flabbergasted, as though he’d never heard such a question before in his life. It hurt Crowley, somewhere deep, to be stared at with that deer-in-the-headlights look for asking something so simple, so obvious. It made him ache for Aziraphale in a way that had grown a little too familiar for Crowley’s taste.

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale eventually answered. “I... I don’t know.”

There was something glass-like in his voice, something fragile, that Crowley didn’t like it in the slightest.

“Hey, ‘s ok,” he said, reaching across the table to cradle the back of Aziraphale’s hand in his palm. “You don’t need to answer me right now. Just, you know. You should think ‘bout it, before you go and take up something like that. Just sayin’.”

Aziraphale’s eyes were bright and very blue as they looked up at Crowley, his smile impossibly tender.

“Of course, love. It sounds like the sensible way to go about it, doesn’t it?”

Crowley shrugged, a little uneasy with the intensity of Aziraphale’s gratitude and unabashed affection.

“’suppose. I am by no means an authority on the subject. Just, well. Seems like the thing to do.”

Crowley took his hand away, but the smile stayed on Aziraphale’s mouth, tender and lovely and so very warm. It was all Crowley could do to wait until they finished their breakfast, before kissing it off those soft lips.

* * *

“So, are you still of the same mind about the party?” Aziraphale said, as they walked leisurely along the gravelly path of Green Park. The day was reasonably dry; perhaps a little too nippy for Crowley to truly enjoy the stroll, but the cold had also driven away most of the locals, if not the much more stubborn tourists, and the park was pleasantly quiet for a Sunday afternoon.

“’course, angel,” he distractedly replied. There was a man trying to play a bagpipe in a secluded corner of the park, but clearly not secluded enough to prevent the frankly depressing wailing of the poorly handled instrument to float helplessly right to them. “When’s that going to be?”

“Next Friday,” Aziraphale replied, the iron tip of his umbrella sinking a little into the gravel at every step. “I know, it’s a bit short notice, but...”

“Don’t be daft, angel, you know I have always time for you,” Crowley huffed back, barely refraining from adding that the only other item on his calendar was getting shagged by Aziraphale, and he was rather confident they’d find a way to include it in the day’s busy schedule.

He did have a rather miserable life, didn’t he. Aside from the bit about getting gloriously shagged by his partner.

(He had a _partner_ now. He was a bit startled to realise how strange the word still felt to him, and how little he actually used it. Aziraphale was... Aziraphale. There was no word in any language that could enclose what he meant to Crowley.

He was obviously getting sappy and light in the head in his old age.)

“You are a very sweet man, deep down,” Aziraphale cooed, ignoring Crowley’s grumbling. “And I’ll make sure to have you properly rewarded for being such a darling.”

Crowley didn’t even try to protest this time, too busy swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat and pretending to be too busy staring at the bloody squirrels to acknowledge the ribbon of heat Aziraphale’s words had sparked down his spine. He’d already come twice, and quite spectacularly at that. His prick had no business getting so excited for such a trivial thing.

“What time?” Crowley mumbled, trying to get back to the original topic of conversation. He was rather grateful for his sunglasses, and even more for his long, thick coat. It could come in handy, if Aziraphale decided that poking at Crowley’s easily excitable libido was in the cards for their early afternoon stroll.

“We usually meet up at eight o’clock, to make sure that everyone can get their share of the celebrations,” Aziraphale cheerfully explained. “We all work different shifts, but at least that’s late enough for everyone in the early and middle shifts to get there, and the party goes on long after the end of the late shift, though those that have to work the day after usually go home a bit sooner.”

“What about you? Which shift are you on?”

“Oh, I’m having the early shift on Friday, and I’m off on Saturday.” A sharp smile, a little wicked at the edges. “I had to pull a few favours to get that, and I’m working on Sunday, but at least I’ll have you all to myself for quite some time after I bring you back completely intoxicated after the party.”

“I thought you didn’t play with intoxicated partners,” Crowley chuckled, succeeding only in making Aziraphale’s smile even sharper.

“Oh, I’m not planning a scene, just some old-fashioned drunken fooling around. It will be fun.”

Crowley stuck his hands into his pockets, pretending to be very interested in the far-off trees. He could imagine only too well Aziraphale’s flushed face, as they tumbled through the threshold utterly pissed and giggling like a couple of idiots, hands everywhere. It would be fun indeed.

“Sounds good.” A beat, as Crowley tried to collect his thoughts long enough to stick something else to that mumbled agreement. “’s a bit early thought, isn’t it? Friday’s not Christmas yet.”

A shadow seemed to flit across Aziraphale’s flushed face, but it was gone in a heartbeat.

“Oh, no one wants to spend Christmas with their colleagues, no matter how lovely they are,” he airily answered. “Family, friends, partners, you know. Everyone’s busy at Christmas. So we usually plan the party the Friday before the beginning of the Christmas vacation at the library.”

Crowley could feel the beginning of a foolish grin blossoming onto his face.

“Does that mean that we get to spend Christmas together, angel?” he said, vaguely realising that he hadn’t spent Christmas with anyone but himself or yet another sad casual shag for a very, very long time. Perhaps in his early twenties, when he got drunk with one of his regular hook-ups stranded in London for the holiday and then ended up shagging on the floor and falling asleep sticky and half-dressed. He’d woken up a few hours later to throw up what had felt like his stomach linings in the kitchen sink. Merry Christmas.

He couldn’t help but wonder what Christmas with Aziraphale would be like. Something sweet and silly and tragically corny, he guessed. He could easily picture the two of them setting up a long-suffering Christmas tree as awful Christmas carols played in the background, and realised that the only references he had, as far as Christmas traditions went, were old family movies from the nineties. How depressing.

Crowley had sunk so deep into his own mind that it took him a moment to realise that Aziraphale had fallen silent by his side, and even worse–he hadn’t answered to his question.

“Angel?” he called, a sudden chill sneaking down his spine. The shadow that Crowley had seen before in passing was back on Aziraphale’s face, this time to stay. He looked a bit sad, and a bit cowered, and a bit far away, the way he went every time his family was concerned. Dread pooled in the pit of Crowley’s stomach.

“I’m sorry, Crowley, but I’m not really going to be around for Christmas,” Aziraphale said, voice growing a bit detached, a bit cold, as they slowly made their way towards the busy road. “I told you I got a call from my sister. Mother is finally back from Israel, and she would like to have us all together under the same roof for Christmas.”

Crowley blinked, suddenly coming to a halt. Aziraphale took another step before following suit, looking at Crowley from under the brim of his fedora.

“You aren’t seriously thinking about going, are you?” Crowley blurted, because there was little else that he could say, really. “After the way they treated you? After the way they talked to you?”

“They are my family, Crowley,” Aziraphale answered, with a clipped voice. “Of course I’m going.”

“I’m coming with you, then,” Crowley said, in a tone that broached no argument. “If you’re really thinking about going back there alone, think again. Especially for Christmas. Not after the nice horror story you told me.”

Aziraphale scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“We were children, Crowley. I hardly think my siblings are going to try and exorcise me again.”

“Yeah, they’re all grown up now. I bet they’re dying to graduate to something much worse.”

“Oh, for crying out loud, Crowley,” Aziraphale huffed. “This is ludicrous. I’m pretty sure I’m not in any immediate physical danger from my siblings, whatever your enlightened opinion might be after three entire days of acquaintance.”

The venom in Aziraphale’s voice gave Crowley pause. Aziraphale had _never_ talked to him that way before. It hurt. Crowley was shocked by just how much it hurt. He could do nothing but blink at Aziraphale in silence, too stunned to be even properly upset. If Aziraphale had walked up to him and struck him, Crowley would’ve probably been less taken aback.

“I’m coming with you,” he repeated, after a long, painful moment of silence. He’d tried to keep his voice even, flat, but there was a dangerous fissure running through it, a tremor just under the surface. It seemed enough for Aziraphale to deflate, somehow.

“Oh, darling, you can’t,” he sighed, the endearment soothing something jagged and aching in Crowley’s chest. “It’s best if I go alone this time. It’s meant to be only family. And it’s not going to be long. Three days. I’ll leave on Christmas eve and I’ll be back by Boxing Day. You won’t even notice I’m gone.”

Crowley would notice Aziraphale was gone plenty, especially knowing that he’d be in the clutches of his horrible family. But that wasn’t what came out of his mouth.

“I can come along for three days,” he said, something horribly plaintive ringing in his soft voice. “’s no bother at all. We’re not even working on Christmas. And Boxing Day is a Bank Holiday. No one works on Bank Holidays. It’ll be difficult for you to get back in town. Easier with my Bentley.”

He was begging, he _knew_ he was. Disgusting, really. And heartbreaking. But he couldn’t stop.

“Please, angel?” he went on, mouth running with no control. “I’ll be good. I’ll be quiet, I promise. I won’t even insult Gabriel much. Please. Let me come with you.”

Aziraphale had grown pale under his fedora. He wasn’t looking at Crowley anymore. His face was twisted in a grimace, turned towards the gravel.

“No, Crowley. I’m going alone. Stop asking, please.”

It was then, at that clipped, firm refusal, that something snapped in Crowley’s chest. It came to him in a rush, how he’d ended up begging, like he always did, his usual clingy, pathetic, _needy_ self.

_Please, let me come. Please._

It didn’t matter whom he was with, he always ended up there. Begging on his bleeding knees, with his hands outstretched, his dignity in the gutters. Why was he always the one to be brought so low? Why couldn’t someone else for a change beg for _him_ to stay?

“That’s why you looked so uncomfortable yesterday,” he spat. “You knew I wouldn’t like it.”

Aziraphale looked away, something strained, something guilty flitting across his pale face.

Anger boiled into Crowley’s blood, a maddening rush.

“It was alright to bring a fake partner to a wedding, but it isn’t to bring the real thing home for Christmas?” he barrelled on, lips pulled back to show the teeth. “Why’s that, Aziraphale? Worried that Gabriel is going to surprise you with that wonderful ex of yours and don’t really want to have the new fling stand in the way?”

Aziraphale startled at that, as though Crowley had hit him square in the face.

“You’re being ridiculous,” he hissed, “and for your information, my brother had never been particularly keen on Robert until the exact moment we split up.”

“Then why shouldn’t I come with you?” Crowley pressed on, incapable of stopping, of toning down the argument, and utterly indifferent about their settings.

Aziraphale wasn’t, however. He seemed to rein himself him with a painful effort, eyes flashing in anger as he bit his lips and stared Crowley down.

“This is not the place for such a discussion,” he declared, with a clipped, strained voice. “Let’s go home.”

Crowley pondered a moment the option of being testy and refusing to go along, but quickly dismissed it.

“Fine,” he hissed, hands stuck deep into his pockets as he resumed his walk. Aziraphale wasn’t far behind, but he never really shortened the distance. That did nothing to either mend Crowley’s bleeding heart or soothe his bruised pride, and he was still bristling in anger and disappointment as they neared Aziraphale’s flat. He let Aziraphale go first, and follow in sullen silence up the stairs.

He had barely closed the door behind his back that Aziraphale rounded up on him.

“Listen to me, now, and listen well,” Aziraphale hissed, properly, scarily angry, and something in Crowley’s heart gave out a little at the look of pure fury in those blue eyes. “I am not accountable to you for the way I deal with my family. Being my partner does not give you the right to interfere. If I’m telling you that I’m going home for Christmas, I expect you to deal with that like an adult and allow me to make my own decisions, instead of throwing a tantrum in the bloody park like a spoilt child. Are we understood?”

Something came down crashing in Crowley’s chest, like a door being slammed shut. He felt his face heat up, every word like a slap across his cheeks. Aziraphale’s livid voice, the scorn, the disdain ringing just behind, hurt like bullets. Crowley’s only saving grace was that he was too angry to cry.

“Fine,” he growled, forcing his voice to remain steady, his body to stay upright instead of crumbling in a heap of limbs onto the floor. “Do whatever the fuck you want. I’m going home.”

He turned on his heels and picked up his bag, without even bothering to check if he got everything. He didn’t care. He walked out and slammed the door behind him as he went.

He was already halfway to the parking lot when he realised that Aziraphale hadn’t lifted a finger to make him stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, don’t hurt me. I’ll try my best to give you another chapter in record time.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter literally blew up in my face. WOW. I’ve never had that kind of response in my _life_, and you guys are simply amazing. I cannot thank you all enough for your kindness and your enthusiasm for my story, it’s just unbelievable. It’s mind-boggling to me. Truly. WOW.  
That said, the chapter you’re about to read didn’t really want to come out of my head. Way too cosy up there, I suppose. I ended up writing deep into the night to get it done, because I didn’t want either to make you wait or cut it short. You can very well take the credit for how quickly I managed to churn it out. I won’t be able to write anything this week (so no update during the weekend), but you guys had been so _amazing_ with your love that I simply couldn’t make you wait two weeks to know what’s coming next.  
So, here is the new chapter. I must confess I’m a bit worried about it, given how rousing the last update had been, but I truly hope you’ll enjoy what I came up with.  
Last but not the least, the usual buckets of love to [uponwhatgrounds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uponwhatgrounds/pseuds/uponwhatgrounds) for gifting me with two more [lovely pieces](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25128289/chapters/62722681). You spoil me, my dear. Thank you so very much.

Crowley was angry.

It was a rather new feeling. Crowley was often annoyed and easily riled up, but rarely angry–and when he was, it was of a peculiar, gnawing sort of anger, one so inextricably tangled up with resentment and self-pity that it was difficult to put any sort of distance between himself and that sickly wave, threatening to pull him under.

The anger he felt, as he stamped down London’s busy streets, was of a different sort. That was no sticky, oozing feeling clinging to his flesh like muck, impossible to scrub away. No. It burnt instead, right under the skin, bright and fiery. He was almost vibrating with it, Aziraphale’s words resonating in a loop inside his head, dissonant like a shattered harmony, his pale face livid like a thunderbolt against the black canvas of Crowley’s mind.

_If I’m telling you that I’m going home for Christmas, I expect you to deal with that like an adult and allow me to make my own decisions, instead of throwing a tantrum in the bloody park like a spoilt child._

He couldn’t even think about that without flinching, the pain almost physical, the shame a looming presence, threatening to wash over him like a tsunami. It was a little surprising, Crowley could concede, that that familiar shame didn’t do anything worse than linger, instead of simply swallowing him whole. He should’ve felt humiliated, down to his very core, and cowered into slinking away with his tail tucked neatly between his legs, but he didn’t. He was mightily missed at Aziraphale for being a stubborn, arrogant prig, but he didn’t feel the urge to disappear quietly from Aziraphale’s life as he’d always done, when casual shags failed to call him back or he had an argument with a friend. That was how he dealt with everything that upset him, after all–he pushed it neatly to the side and did his best to forget it had ever happened.

He didn’t want to forget, this time. He didn’t want to excise Aziraphale from his life like a wounded limb, and all because he couldn’t stand the pain of cauterization. But after a lifetime of uprooting problems and throwing them into the shredder instead of dealing with them, he had no clue on how to work past the bleeding pain of his wounded pride. What he knew was that he wasn’t ready to hear from Aziraphale in any way or form, nor to consider consequences. He needed time to try and think, really _think_, instead of tumbling straight into his next impulsive reaction. He didn’t want to flare up, or shut Aziraphale out, but he didn’t know how to turn off his seething anger. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

It was all too much, too soon. There was a pressure in his belly, as though a giant hand was squeezing his stomach into a pulp. Crowley couldn’t rightly tell if that was anxiety or heartbreak, but at the moment he didn’t care. Whatever that was, he knew what to do. He’d always known, since he’d been a teenage boy slurping down everything he could get his hands on in bars where he wasn’t supposed to be before finding a dark corner and a willing body. The glory of the nineties, he supposed.

There was a huge Tesco by the corner, the blue and red sign flashing bright in the dimming lights. He got inside without putting any real thought behind it, feet moving on autopilot. He was standing in the middle of the liquor aisle before he knew it, something deeply soothing in the familiarity of it all. He wanted a break from his seething mind, and while he knew well enough that a bender didn’t automatically provide it, at least throwing up in the toilet would give him a very valid reason to feel pitiful about himself.

Vodka was the best choice for the task ahead, and Crowley selected the cheapest brand. He hated vodka, he hated how tacky and flavourless it was, a punch of pure alcohol without any soul, any taste to it, and he hated the kind of drunkenness that brought with it, the truly awful hangover that came after, but he didn’t want to associate something he loved to that specific moment. He didn’t want to taste scotch on his tongue one day and remember Aziraphale’s vitriolic words, his sweet face contorted in rage. He wanted to get utterly pissed, puke his guts, and forget for a while until he was actually ready to process what had happened.

He was about to pick the bottle from the shelf, when he hesitated. That was the usual way, the easy way. He always took a bender on vodka when he had his heart thoroughly shattered. Otherwise it was scotch, bourbon, wine. He remembered sipping wine with Aziraphale and flinched. Perhaps not that. And going home without anything to ease the rumblings of his mind wasn’t an option. But perhaps not something awful, something that felt almost like punishing himself. He remembered getting drunk on bourbon weeks before, when he thought Aziraphale was not interested, and picked the same brand with barely a thought. He chose a mercifully empty lane, and was glad for his sunglasses as the cashier’s eyes flicked to his face. He didn’t really want to know what his eyes would betray, as he bought a bottle of bourbon in the middle of a Saturday afternoon and nothing else. He stuck the bottle into his overnight bag and walked to the car park on unsteady feet.

It soothed something deep into his chest to see his Bentley, the physical proof of something he cherished that was his and his only, something that hadn’t ended up being irreversibly tied to Aziraphale in some way. It was terrifying to realise just how much Aziraphale had encroached into his life in so short a time, how deep his roots ran into the unsteady, rocky ground of whatever made Crowley himself. How inextricably tangled together they were, and just how atrociously, unbearably painful would’ve been to be cleaved apart.

Crowley closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath. He didn’t want to think about that. Not yet. He opened the door and threw his bag onto the backseats, before sliding into his place behind the wheel. It was comforting being surrounded by his car, the feel, the smell of it. It felt safe. Crowley turned on the engine and drove out of the car park, then pelted away towards home.

It was already dark, by the time he reached his apartment building. Crowley parked the Bentley and took a moment to check his phone. It was blinking lazily in the darkness, a barrel of notifications from all the social medias that Crowley only occasionally bothered to check trying desperately to get his attention, but no calls. No messages. Not a single pip from Aziraphale. Disappointment twisted cruelly into his belly, and Crowley briefly considered leaving his mobile in the glove compartment. He wasn’t sure what he’d do, once he got nice and pissed, but he was fairly certain that calling Aziraphale was on the list and that that was a rather terrible idea. He didn’t think that drunkenly shouting at Aziraphale would help the situation in any way, but he was more worried about the alternative–that he would just fold like a tea towel and leave a slobbering message on Aziraphale’s voicemail. Everything was too chaotic right now, and Crowley was self-aware enough to know that, deep down, he really wanted to do both. He wanted to be angry at Aziraphale, and shout at him, and cry and be comforted, and be with him and the hell away from him, all at the same time.

He slung the strap of his bag over his shoulder and closed the door of his Bentley behind him, before taking the lift to his floor. The corridor was brightly lit, but silent. Crowley felt inordinately grateful that no one was in sight, and all but fled into his flat.

He was startled by the feeling of otherness he experienced in his own home the moment he turned on the lights. As though there was something alien in the white walls, the lack of clutter, the impersonality of his minimalist decor. Something slightly out of place, as if someone had stalked into his house and shifted every single object a few centimetres to the left. It was an absurd feeling, he was well aware, but he couldn’t get rid of it. It stayed, clinging to his frayed nerves as he dropped the bag by the desk in the foyer, hung his coat and scarf on the rack by the door and walked around in a state of vague confusion.

He was standing by his perfectly made-up bed, staring at his expensive navy-blue Belgian flax linen sheets and matching velvet quilt, when he realised that Aziraphale’s flat felt more like home than his own. It was a terrifying thought. He’d lived in that apartment for close to twenty years. True, he hadn’t really put that much interest nor love into it, but that didn’t mean that it was all right for him to just go and imprint like a bloody duckling onto the very first place in which he’d felt welcome. It was a sad thought, that he hadn’t been able to give his flat a blasted personality in two decades. He’d furnished the place with what he’d imagined would better suit his flawlessly tailored persona of a sleek, fashionable bachelor, and was shocked to realise that it didn’t fit him anymore, like an old pair of shoes. It felt like a strange place to him, the same way his desk at work did. There was nothing that really spoke to Crowley there, nothing that he could really identify as his own. Placeholders, all of them. Temporary shelters where to wait out the storm. But the storm had been gone for years, and Crowley had been too comfortable and too lazy to ever come out.

And now he’d gone and found a home in a place that didn’t belong to him, with someone he wasn’t even sure wanted him anymore. The thought hurt like a knife in the guts, or at least like he imagined a knife in the guts would hurt–a white-hot, jagged sort of pain, twisting deep into his core, where he was soft and easy to break.

That wasn’t something he really wanted to think about sober. He didn’t really want to think about it at all.

He grabbed the bottle and turned on the telly, before kicking his shoes away and curling up on the couch. He had no idea what was going on onto the screen, and he didn’t care. He took a swig of bourbon and closed his eyes, relishing the taste, the explosion of heat onto his tongue.

He recognised the movie, now. Richard Chamberlain barrelling through France on a vengeful rampage was perhaps not the best choice for a relaxing evening, but Crowley found it surprisingly soothing. He settled down, took another swig of bourbon and allowed himself to be pulled in, focusing on the pictures flitting on the screen instead of whatever was swirling into his head.

By the time the movie had reached its end, it was well into the evening. Crowley had slurped down half the content of the bottle, on a fairly empty stomach on top of that. He was sloppy drunk, vaguely nauseous and increasingly upset with the lack of phone calls or messages on his phone. He should’ve left the bloody thing in the car. On the bright side, he wasn’t sure he wanted to talk to Aziraphale right now. He was still way too cross and now also way too drunk. Nothing good could come out of that. Though the self-righteous bastard _could_ have spared a few precious moments of his time to give Crowley a call, all things considered.

Crowley took another angry swig of bourbon, and grimaced at the indignant protest he got from his roiling stomach at that new abuse. That faint nausea was slowly turning into a faint headache, and Crowley decided that getting something into his belly might be a good idea. He ordered a pizza (disproportionately grateful to the app on his phone that allowed him to avoid an embarrassing drunken phone call) and sealed the half-empty bottle, carefully stashing it away in his reservoir of alcohol for difficult times. Then he settled on the couch to nurse his long-suffering stomach and his aching head while he waited for his food. It was a bit too late in the evening to eat, but he didn’t care much, and he doubted he’d be able to sleep well anyway.

The BBC had gone into a classic frenzy, from the look of it. Crowley was working through the first half of _Gone with the Wind_ when he got his pizza. He would’ve probably appreciated more _Golden Girls_ reruns, but there was something deeply dramatic in those old movies that had always appealed to him. A past grandeur of a sort, when movie-making was a difficult feat which required an impressive amount of skills. Nowadays everything was just so sharp, so detailed, without the need to use every trick up one’s sleeve to drive a point home. Crowley appreciated the craft, if nothing else.

The film was halfway through, and the phone was still stubbornly silent. Perhaps that was it, Crowley thought, with unbearable sadness. Perhaps that was the end.

He was shocked by the violence, the strength of that blow. He felt almost disoriented for a moment, too devastated even to cry, and for a trashing, panicky moment he fumbled for his phone, ready to beg Aziraphale to stay with him. Crowley loved him so much. So much.

And yet, he couldn’t stop Aziraphale’s angry words from ringing into his mind, the disdain cutting like a blade.

It hurt so terribly. How could Aziraphale be so cruel? He’d never talked to Crowley like that before. And why didn’t he want Crowley to go with him, anyway? Crowley just wanted to protect him. He would do anything for Aziraphale. He truly would. And wasn’t that the saddest part, really? He would beg and beg and beg for Aziraphale to love him, to make him feel safe and cared for. He would trample over his own dignity again and again, if he could just hide in Aziraphale’s bed for another day. He was so addicted to Aziraphale’s gentleness that he would do anything, say anything, to get it back.

And that was the problem. Crowley was vaguely aware that he wasn’t thinking clearly, too terrified of being rejected to be fully rational, but he _knew_, he knew in a way that could not be twisted by his own mind, that could not be counterfeited or ignored, that if he was to call Aziraphale right then and there, panicky and drunk and one step away from breaking apart, Aziraphale would put aside his own anger and do _anything_ to make it all better.

Aziraphale was a gentle man, honestly, authentically gentle, always aware of the needs of his partner, and earnestly devoted to fulfil them. It wasn’t the only thing Crowley loved about him, far from it, but it was the first thing that had drawn Crowley in, that gentleness of his, that genuine care for the people around him. Aziraphale had told him before how difficult it was for him to respect his own boundaries, and Crowley remembered now how pale, how upset he had looked as he all but begged Crowley to stop asking. If Crowley hadn’t snapped, Aziraphale would’ve said yes. He would’ve said yes and then been angry with himself for caving, and resented Crowley for insisting.

It was a herculean effort for Aziraphale to say no to his partners, and it dawned suddenly on Crowley that the power he yielded over Aziraphale extended well outside the bedroom. He could get Aziraphale to do just about anything, if he asked right, whether that was something Aziraphale wanted or not.

Crowley also realised exactly in which position he’d put the man, stuck between the partner he desperately wanted to please and the family he could never satisfy. Crowley was still far from happy at the idea of leaving Aziraphale all alone to tender mercies of his arsehole siblings, but perhaps shouting in the park about it (and dragging the ex out from the sewers to throw him in Aziraphale’s face, ugh, that had been a truly shite move) hadn’t been exactly the best strategy to get an answer out of him. Crowley knew how cagey Aziraphale was about his family, how difficult it had been for him to open up, how he was still struggling to admit that perhaps his siblings didn’t simply want the best for him. And Crowley had taken an axe and split that delicate web of sensitive nerves open like a coconut.

He was an idiot. He was still angry at Aziraphale and in no mood to reach out to him, now that that spike of panic had passed, but he could perhaps admit that his approach hadn’t been the best. He harboured no doubt in his mind that he would beg and grovel to get Aziraphale to stay, if Aziraphale didn’t want him anymore, but if Aziraphale would truly push him to such extremes, then nothing he thought he knew about the man was true, and there would be nothing at all to miss once he was gone.

He was mulling all that over, still a bit pissed but with a vaguely more settled stomach, when he fell asleep as he was, curled up on the couch with a half-full carton of cooling pizza open on the coffee table and Vivian Leigh staring dramatically into the sunset on screen.

* * *

Sunday came, rather unsurprisingly, with yet more radio silence from Aziraphale and a spike of resentment from Crowley’s already tattered patience. He was aching all over, both from spending half of the night asleep on the couch and getting drunk on bourbon, and in no mood to endure the situation much longer. His stomach was rather unhappy with him, his head thoroughly cross, and his muscles in no particularly gleeful disposition either. Crowley made himself a nice breakfast, refusing to get all maudlin over the memory of toasting bread for Aziraphale, swallowed some painkillers and then decided that his time would be much better spent working on his Bentley, instead of moping in his flat. He devoted some attention to his plants first, repotting a couple that sorely needed more space and perhaps working a bit of his frustration on the poor lot of them, then took the Bentley out to the communal car park and didn’t lift his head from his car for the next three hours.

By the time he was done, Crowley was greased up to his elbows but he had a brand new engine belt and fresh oil, not to mention a newly waxed car body. He drove the Bentley to its usual parking spot and went back upstairs, treating himself to a nice, steamy shower and then slipping into a pair of comfortable charcoal sweatpants and a long-sleeved black shirt. He wouldn’t be caught dead in any of that outside his apartment, but he didn’t have the will right then to squeeze his long limbs into yet another pair of too-tight jeans. He warmed up whatever was left of his cold pizza (which had found its way to the fridge at some point during the night) and sat down on the couch in a huff, rather unimpressed with the lack of calls and messages still stubbornly displayed by his phone. Then he remembered that Aziraphale would be at work for the day, and something softened a little in his chest. He turned on the telly and sat through yet another boring reality show he vaguely remembered to have covered in a piece some time before, munching distractedly on his pizza and trying without particular success to divert his mind from the previous evening.

The day crawled on slowly, as the sky outside started to darken. Crowley glanced at the stylish clock mounted in his living room for the fifteenth time since he’d sat down (he’d counted) and saw that it wasn’t even half past five. Aziraphale’s shift wasn’t due to end for another half hour.

He pondered about waiting for Aziraphale to get out of work, to see if the other would reach out first. It was his privilege, after all. He couldn’t stop thinking about Aziraphale’s sneer as he unceremoniously told Crowley to stay the hell away from his business, as though that wasn’t what being in a relationship meant–sharing each other’s lives. Crowley had no practical experience on the matter, but he was pretty sure that partners weren’t supposed to cut each other out at will. Especially after Aziraphale’s lofty speeches about being open with one another and asking questions, discussing issues. It didn’t extend to his shite family, apparently. Or to anything else Aziraphale didn’t deem Crowley good enough to be involved with. So much for being partners, so much for a committed relationship.

And yet, Crowley was not a child, he was a bloody adult, and as such, he was well-equipped to fight back if he thought that he was being ill-treated. He’d snapped his teeth more than once at Aziraphale, back when they started, because he’d felt off-balanced and confused by what later on he’d come to perceive as tender, caring gestures. He was not a fragile little thing to be coddled.

Crowley scrubbed a hand across his face. He might have been new to relationships, but he knew that situation well enough. He’d had his share of staring at the phone like a sulky teenager in the past, waiting for someone to call back, to decide when and if Crowley was fit to be talked to again. He was tired of waiting. He was tired of other people making that decision for him, and he was tired of letting them. He wanted to talk to Aziraphale, and so he would. As simple as that.

Besides, did he really want for their relationship to become that, a silent tug-of-war where the one who needed the other more, who had been hurt by the argument more, would lose ground every time he gave in first?

No. They deserved better. _Crowley_ deserved better. He would not let a fight evolve into some rubbish war of attrition. He wanted to be with Aziraphale, in a way that matter, where they wouldn’t be too afraid or too stubborn and prideful to reach out to one another. He couldn’t care less about being the winner of a stupid, childish battle of wills.

Six o’clock had already come and gone. Knowing Aziraphale, he could still be stuck in the library, talking to a student, chatting with his colleagues. Or maybe not. Maybe today Aziraphale would not be in the mood to chatter about, upset as Crowley was, pondering whether he should call Crowley first.

Crowley resolutely ignored the way his hands were shaking as he picked up the phone, and dialled Aziraphale’s number.

It barely rang once before Aziraphale took the call.

“Hello?”

Crowley closed his eyes. He hadn’t realised how violently the sound of Aziraphale’s voice would crash over him, tumultuous like a tide. And there was something else, something uncertain and a little vulnerable clinking somewhere under the surface, something that tugged at Crowley’s heart like a string.

Crowley’s voice was coarse, a bit scratchy and a bit cracking, as he spoke up.

“You’re an arse.”

He hadn’t been sure until the exact moment that came out of his mouth what he was going to say, but as he heard a soft, huffing sigh puffing out from the other side of the line, he knew he’d made the right choice.

“That wasn’t one of my finest moments, was it?” Aziraphale answered, something deeply tired ringing in his voice. Something that spoke of exhaustion, of a grinding sadness that gripped Crowley tighter than any word ever could. “I’m sorry, Crowley. I shouldn’t have talked to you like that.”

Crowley closed his eyes. People apologised all the time, but they rarely meant it. The glaring, honest regret filtering through the line hit him unaware, reaching deep, where something jagged and splintered ached like a wound, flaring up in pulses. He had to swallow around the lump in his throat at the genuine care tightly interwoven to that feeling, delicate like a touch.

“You’re right. You shouldn’t have.” A deep breath, as he struggled to give his mind some semblance of order. “And I shouldn’t have insisted. Surely shouldn’t have dragged your ex in the discussion. But it’s not fair of you to shut me out like that.”

“I know, darling, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be that harsh. But if I make a decision about the way I want to conduct my life, and especially about the way I want to deal with my family, please try to respect that. I know you were concerned about me, and I’m sorry, I truly am, for hurting you. I never meant to. But please... please, don’t push, if I ask you not to.”

Noise gushed through the line, bristling just underneath the uneven murmur of Aziraphale’s voice–the mad swirl of London’s night life, the far-off chattering of strangers, the honking of some car. Crowley could picture him so well, slowly making his way towards the Tube, manicured hand clumsily cradling the phone to his ear as he tried to be discreet, to hide the violent, inescapable starkness of the obvious plead screeching into his words. That was as close as Crowley had ever got to hearing Aziraphale beg, and he wasn’t sure he liked it.

“Alright, angel. I’ll do my best.”

A sigh, brimming with relief.

“Thank you, Crowley,” Aziraphale answered, the polite words filled with such a depth of feeling it left Crowley a little unsettled. Simple respect for other people’s decisions should not warrant that sort of gratitude, as though they had been granted a fucking gift, and Crowley felt the very last dredges of his anger slowly melt away.

With that gone, only the heartache remained.

“Don’t mention it,” Crowley answered, trying and failing to hide the quivering in his voice.

He was not particularly surprised when Aziraphale picked up on it.

“But enough with me, now,” Aziraphale said, trying to lighten up his tone even as it was heavily weighed with concern. “Are you all right, my dear?”

“Not really, no,” Crowley murmured, voice low and breaking. “I think... I think I need to see you.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Aziraphale whispered, the tenderness and the sorrow in his voice deafening. “Whenever you want. Do you feel all right to drive? Or should I get a cab and come to you instead?”

Crowley chuckled, a bit wetly, but infinitely relieved.

“You’d have to leave the cabbie one of your kidneys in payment, you know, if you ever got one to drive you all the way out here,” he mused, and laughed, low and soft but still a laugh, at Aziraphale’s protest that it was no matter at all. “No, I mean it. ‘s a bit late tonight, but perhaps I could come by tomorrow. Which shift are you on?”

“Early shift, and of course you’re more than welcome to come tomorrow, but Crowley, if you need me now...”

“Nah, angel. I’m good. ‘m not in such terrible conditions,” Crowley said, realising with a start that it was nothing but the truth. “I can wait until tomorrow.”

“Are you sure?”

“Very sure, angel. Don’t you go and worry your pretty head about me.”

“I do resent having my head described as pretty, you know,” Aziraphale huffed, before the tone changed again. “If you are quite sure...”

“I am. Would you like to meet somewhere? Or should I pick you up from work?”

“I’ll be already done by the time you get there, but I thought that perhaps you would like to come to mine and have dinner with me?”

It took Crowley barely more than a second to realise that the argument wasn’t done in the slightest. Aziraphale just wanted to discuss the matter in person and in a quiet, private setting, where they would feel at ease. He wasn’t wrong to assume that his draughty old flat would feel familiar to Crowley, and the thought sparked once again something between concern and warmth in Crowley’s chest.

“Of course, angel. Sounds lovely. Should I bring some wine?”

“I think it would be better to do without, this once,” Aziraphale carefully answered, confirming Crowley’s suspicions. Crowley wasn’t sure what he thought about that. He could feel the heavy, clammy hand of anxiety squeeze his lungs in a grip, but he was absurdly glad that Aziraphale hadn’t simply swept the whole thing under the rug and forgot about it.

“Dessert, then. Something from that patisserie you like so much near Golden Square?”

A sigh, deep and almost dripping with affection.

“You spoil me, darling. Some of those lovely chocolate truffles would be such a wonderful way to end our meal. What would you like to eat?”

Crowley thought about it for a moment, pondering how he wanted to play that. He decided to go with what his instincts were telling him.

“You choose, angel.”

A sound, like breath catching.

“All right, my dear,” Aziraphale eventually answered, something breaking a little in his voice, like a tremor quivering just underneath the skin. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

Crowley elected to ignore the way their voices cracked a little, as they exchanged their goodnights.

* * *

Monday morning crawled by in a daze, after a night of fitful sleep and dark dreams Crowley couldn’t quite remember. Something about an Apocalypse, perhaps, since his brain seemed utterly unable to process upsetting memories without being embarrassingly dramatic about it. But that had meant sleeping poorly for two nights in a row, straight after a violent emotional turmoil and a nice (although far from his best hits) bender with subsequent hangover, and Crowley felt completely wiped out. He could barely keep his head up, even after chucking down five cups of coffee in less than four hours, and his body had stubbornly decided that being an uncooperative shite was clearly the way to go.

Anathema’s absence, as far as Crowley could tell, was the only blessing. Her presence at the office had been spotty at best in the past week, with the Christmas vacation looming near, as she was taken up with various assignments and the oncoming examination period. She had promised Crowley that she would surely pop by to wish him a merry Christmas before disappearing for two weeks, but that was it.

Crowley was glad she wasn’t around. Everything felt too tiring and fragile to survive the questioning of a nosy nineteen-year-old. It wasn’t just the fight–there was something about that thing he had with Aziraphale that just felt raw, all the time, like an open wound. It (mostly) didn’t hurt, and it didn’t bleed, but he would feel the sting if someone was to stab their finger into it.

The truth was that Crowley had always been protective of his heart, and Aziraphale was way too close to it for Crowley to be able to separate them. Talking about Aziraphale nearly always meant shoving into the spotlight something that was meant to thrive in the shadows, and no matter how fond he was of Anathema, and how much she’d glimpsed of him in the year she’d been with them–there were things that he simply was not ready to give up.

The day went by both too slowly and too quickly, and soon it was the end of Crowley’s shift. He was left with vague memories of pieces he’d written in a detached, far-off sort of daze, everything else a blur as he clocked out and picked up his Bentley. He parked it in a multi-storey car park close to Golden Square, then slugged the strap of his travel bag onto his shoulder and made a quick stop by the patisserie Aziraphale was so fond of to get the chocolate truffles before carrying on to Aziraphale’s building block. He’d packed his stuff a little haphazardly the day before, realising that he’d left all his toiletries and a couple of other things at Aziraphale’s flat in his haste to run off. He hoped Aziraphale hadn’t minded.

It felt strange, almost surreal, to ring Aziraphale’s doorbell. He flinched at the sight of Aziraphale’s nameplate, the _Aaron Fell_ in elegant copperplate mockingly blinking at him in the soft lights coming from the old streetlamps. The door opened shortly after, and Crowley slowly climbed up the stairs, heart stuttering in his chest as the anxiety and the dread and the excitement caught up with him. Then he was turning a corner, stepping into a short corridor with peeling wallpaper, and glimpsed the open door of Aziraphale’s flat, his stout body blotting out the light. He was very obviously waiting for Crowley, and caught sight of him at the same time Crowley did.

The moment seemed to linger, as they took stock of each other in silence. Crowley was hit anew by how alluringly soft Aziraphale looked, the sharp edges Crowley knew were there padded over by layer after layer of genuine gentleness. He looked stupidly good in his pressed trousers and worn-out sweater, left hanging open over a partially unbuttoned cream-coloured shirt devoid of the customary bowtie, and even through the dark lenses of his sunglasses Crowley could catch glimpses of gold mottling that white-blond hair in the dim light coming from the open door. There was a fragile smile curling up Aziraphale’s lips, and his eyes were bright and hopeful and heart-wrenchingly tender as he stared at Crowley as though he’d never seen quite anything of the like in his entire life. He looked a little worn out around the edges, and a little fidgety, a little sad, and all Crowley could do was walk up to him and throw his arms around that soft neck, grabbing him with almost bruising force until he could feel the soft press of that round belly pushing against his stomach.

The gentle touch of those solid arms around his waist, of those careful hands against his back, moved Crowley close to tears. He hid his face into those golden curls, thoroughly displacing his glasses in the process. He should’ve just left the damn things in the car. It wasn’t like Aziraphale couldn’t read him like a book anyway.

He’d probably made some noise, because Aziraphale was soon nosing at his cheek, the hold around his waist turning firm. Aziraphale was still caressing his back in delicate up-and-down motions, but he was cradling Crowley close now, holding him ever so sweetly.

“I’m sorry if I caused you pain, my love,” Aziraphale murmured in his ear, so earnest that Crowley had to swallow a sob.

He tried to say something in return, but nothing came to mind, so he simply pressed his face against the crown of Aziraphale’s head a bit tighter, inhaling the citreous scent of Aziraphale’s shampoo. He got a gentle squeeze for his trouble, and they stayed like that a while longer, simply holding onto each other, drawing some comfort from the other’s presence. Then Aziraphale pulled away, carefully but firmly, and Crowley was left cold and bereft, barely in control enough to stop himself from reaching out, tugging Aziraphale back where he belonged.

“We can do better than stand in the doorway, darling,” Aziraphale said, a touch of humour in his voice. His eyes looked a bit too bright, his voice sounded a little uneven. His smile was soft, though, impossibly loving. “Come on in.”

Crowley wasn’t sure he could get a straight sentence out of his mouth, so he didn’t say anything to that, simply allowing Aziraphale to take his hand and pull him inside. The door was quickly locked behind him, his bag carefully slipped off his shoulder. Aziraphale paused then, looking at Crowley with an open, vulnerable face, as he pressed his hands against Crowley’s chest. Since no protest was forthcoming, he slowly worked to tug the scarf off Crowley’s neck, then unbuttoned his coat. Crowley let the warmth of the gesture wash over him, the enticing, irresistible high of being taken care of, and allowed Aziraphale to pull his coat off, observing in silent fascination the careful, precise gestures with which Aziraphale hung both items onto the hanger.

Then Aziraphale was turning towards him, hands hovering by the slim arms of Crowley’s glasses in an open question. Crowley hesitated for a moment, the instinctive unwillingness of being seen in a somewhat fragile state giving a kick before quietly settling down. He tipped his head in a small nod, and Aziraphale carefully slipped off his shades, folding them and placing them on the closest surface–namely the shelf of one of the several bookcases covering almost every wall. Crowley blinked in the sudden light, nearly missing the gentle touch of Aziraphale’s warm hands on his cheeks, framing his bare face. The violent tenderness of that hold made for a sharp counterpoint to the pointed, searching look of those blue eyes, wide open and ever so close.

“Are you all right, love?” Aziraphale asked, low and achingly intimate. “I know it’s a bit late now for my concern. I should’ve called you straight after our fight, but I was just so _angry_, and I couldn’t...”

There were once again those dangerous fissures in Aziraphale’s voice, rumbling just beneath the strained tone. Crowley cradled one of those soft hands in one of his own, turning his head just enough to kiss the palm.

“’s fine, angel. ‘m fine. I called you when I wanted to talk to you.” He glanced up, taking in those blue, bright eyes. “Isn’t it easier that way?”

Aziraphale looked almost stricken for a moment, then something flashed across his face, something a bit like guilt. He pressed their foreheads together, exhaling slowly.

“I guess it is.” He lingered a moment longer, treading breaths with Crowley, before taking a step back. “Come, now. Dinner will get cold.”

He took Crowley’s hand, guiding him towards the small kitchen. The table was fully prepared, the food already plated. Aziraphale had obviously calculated when Crowley would get there, and trusted him to be on time enough to take the food out of its Styrofoam containers. It was a warming thought, for some reason.

They ate mostly in silence, the air still a little too tense between them to spark a proper conversation. Crowley was used to quietly delighting in Aziraphale’s presence, but that was different. It was an uncomfortable sort of silence, something that they hadn’t really experienced for quite a while. Crowley wasn’t sure he liked it. But the look of open, heart-breaking adoration upon Aziraphale’s face eased the strain a little, and Crowley could do nothing but reach for Aziraphale’s hand, lying upon the table cloth, and tangle their fingers together. Aziraphale answered by squeezing his hand, and they chattered a little about work after that, trying their best to keep their hold onto each other’s hand even when it turned difficult, or downright ridiculous. Crowley didn’t want to let go, and Aziraphale seemed of the same mind.

The seafood paella Aziraphale had ordered for the evening was delicious, but Crowley hardly tasted it. He was wound up a bit too tight to be able to focus on anything but Aziraphale and their upcoming talk, though the unflinching attention Aziraphale was pouring over him soothed a little some twisted nerves he hadn’t been ever aware of having. He finished his food with barely a thought, then followed Aziraphale into the living room.

The chocolate truffles turned out to have weathered rather well their little trip in Crowley’s travel bag, as much as Aziraphale gasped and protested at the sad state of the delicately ornate box they had come with. They ate them sitting on the couch, Crowley utterly enthralled by the lovely view of Aziraphale licking chocolate off his fingers.

Then the last excuse they had to postpone their overdue talk was gone, and they found themselves sitting a bit awkwardly on the couch, Aziraphale staring at his own fidgeting hands and Crowley observing with great interest a little tear left in the threadbare carpet by some piece of furniture.

They were both a bit surprised when Crowley broke off the silence.

“I’m not sorry for what I said,” he declared, a bit too nervous to look up but refusing to back off. “I said what I thought, and I’m still convinced I’m right. But it’s your family, and at the end your decision. I’ll stand by you, whatever you choose.”

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale sighed, ever so softly. “I will do what I think is right, but I was wrong to make you feel like your opinion didn’t matter. It does. For that, I’m sorry.”

Crowley pondered a moment what to say next. It felt a little like walking on tiptoe on a crumbling glass panel.

“You’re going, then.”

Aziraphale’s already tense figure turned ramrod straight at that.

“Yes, I’m going. And I’m going alone.” A deep breath. “Please, don’t ask to come with me. I couldn’t bear the thought of saying no to you again. I don’t think I would be able to. Please, don’t... don’t use that against me.”

Crowley nearly asked again _why_ he couldn’t go, but there was such a violent, jarring vulnerability sizzling just underneath the steady murmur of Aziraphale’s voice that he almost choked on it. That was a man whose decisions about his own bloody life had been dissected, discussed and eventually found lacking for decades on end. Perhaps he could do with a partner who would accept them, for a change. And Crowley had an ugly feeling that he would know the answer to that specific question sooner rather than later.

“Fine,” he spat through clenched teeth, “but if one of your arsehole siblings lays as much as a finger on you, I’m going to hunt them down with my jack in hand. I don’t care where they’re hiding.”

Aziraphale flinched at Crowley’s tone, the colour leaving his already pale cheeks.

“Crowley, I’m sorry, but you can’t... you can’t keep talking that way about my family,” he said, struggling to get the words out. He obviously didn’t want to discuss with Crowley again, and guilt spiked in Crowley’s chest. He wasn’t going to back down from his point, but perhaps he could tone down the insults a little. “It’s my family. I understand what they’ve done to you, but...”

“To _me_?!” Crowley snapped, utterly incredulous. “They didn’t do anything to me. Yeah, they’ve been a delightful bunch of godforsaken wank--- they’ve been a bit unpleasant, but that’s fine, I’m used to it. It’s what they did to you.”

Aziraphale was still staring at his fidgeting hands, a grimace on his face.

“They did nothing to me,” he answered, something old and cowering and deeply wounded flashing in his pale face for a moment before quickly vanishing. “I love you, Crowley, but you must drop this. I can’t... you can’t ask me to choose. Please. They are my family. You must understand that.”

Crowley didn’t, not really, but for Aziraphale he would try.

“I’m not asking you to,” he said, as gentle as he knew how. He reached out, finally, as he’d wanted to do from the beginning, and took one of Aziraphale’s fidgeting hands in his own, cradling it ever so tenderly. “I would never. It’s just... it’s difficult to see the way they treat you and do nothing about it. Breaks my fucking heart.”

Aziraphale’s lips were curled in a little, watery smile as he glanced up at Crowley with too-bright eyes, but it was gone in a heartbeat, just as Aziraphale looked away once more.

“You’re being overdramatic,” he said, a bit of steel shining in his tone. “They don’t treat me badly. They are just... not very good at expressing their affection. It’s not their fault. They try.”

It was right then, that the true tragedy of the moment came crashing down on Crowley. They had reached an impasse, an impasse that had a very easy and yet impossible solution. He could keep arguing with Aziraphale, but that would mean telling straight to that sweet, vulnerable man that although he loved his family, devoutly and unconditionally, his family didn’t love him back. How did one find the words to say _that_ to the person he loved?

Crowley had grown so used to the disregard of his own family that it dawned on him only then what it truly meant for Aziraphale to let go of that conviction, that desperate hope of being loved to which he’d been clinging for more than forty years. It would mean being alone, truly alone, for the first time of his life, alone and unloved. Crowley could understand very well why no one would want to experience that, if they could do something about it. And who was Crowley to come by and rob Aziraphale of that semblance of peace?

His brave love. Insisting to be himself even after being spurned time and time again. Crowley couldn’t really blame him for looking away instead of sticking his hand into the fire and letting his flesh be consumed to the bones by the ugly, unbearable truth.

He scuttled closer, pressing Aziraphale’s hand to his cheek. A deep wave of sorrow washed over him, and it was strange, how even Aziraphale’s anger hadn’t hurt that much.

“I just...” he whispered, trying and failing to keep his voice even. “I just want to protect you.”

Aziraphale let out a deep, shuddering sigh, then he pulled his hand away gently from Crowley’s grip and drew him into his arms. Crowley let himself be cradled against that wide chest, and hid his face into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, inhaling the faint smell of Aziraphale’s aftershave and fabric softener and the clean scent of his skin. He slipped his hands under the open sweater and pressed his palms against the small of Aziraphale’s back, only the thin shirt preventing him from touching warm, soft skin.

“I know you do,” Aziraphale whispered, pressing his lips against the crown of Crowley’s head. “But that’s not how it works.”

“Because I’m your blasted submissive?” Crowley grumbled, a little resentful, but he felt something give out a little in his chest at Aziraphale’s answer.

“Because you can’t protect me from heartbreak.”

Crowley gripped him tight, then tighter, fingers digging like claws in the pressed fabric of his shirt.

“I can try.”

“I know you can, and I’m sure you will,” Aziraphale whispered, so very tenderly. “My darling love.”

They stayed like that for a long, long while, simply holding onto each other. Eventually, one of Aziraphale’s hands found its way into Crowley’s hair, and he started petting him in gentle, soothing motions. Aziraphale merely hummed when Crowley slowly pulled his shirt out of his pants, finally caressing the heated, naked skin of the small of his back with slightly unsteady fingers.

“Perhaps we should go to bed,” Aziraphale murmured after a while, pulling back a little to pepper the crown of Crowley’s head with lazy kisses.

“That’s something of an ambiguous sentence, you know,” Crowley mumbled. He wasn’t sure what he wanted at the moment, aside from being close to Aziraphale, and didn’t really want to go through the effort of making up his mind.

“In which way?” Aziraphale chuckled. The bastard.

“You know which way.”

That prompted a small, airy laugh from Aziraphale, which was enough somehow to topple the balance. Crowley already had his hands stuck under Aziraphale’s shirt, after all. He wasn’t entirely opposed to feeling even closer to him.

“Do you have something in mind?” Aziraphale promptly asked, as though he’d been reading Crowley’s mind.

“Do you?” Crowley grumbled, turning Aziraphale’s question around on him.

Aziraphale took his time to answer.

“I don’t know. That was... a little draining. I want to feel you near, however.”

Crowley could work on that. He really could.

“We could sleep naked again,” he proposed, only to be met with a soft, easy chuckle.

“Not if you want to get to work in time tomorrow, we couldn’t.” A beat, as Aziraphale scratched a point of Crowley’s scalp that sent a shiver tumbling down his spine. “I do have something in mind, though. Something sweet.”

That sounded good enough for Crowley. He nuzzled at the shadowy place underneath Aziraphale’s jaw, and upon realising he hadn’t kissed Aziraphale in days, he did just so. He kept the pressure of his lips gentle, chaste, but Aziraphale had a wicked tongue and soon the kiss was turning deeper, a delicious frisson of heat sizzling across his skin.

“Do tell,” Crowley whispered against his lips.

Aziraphale chuckled and pulled away, but not before giving Crowley a parting peck on his lips.

“I think we’d do well to get ready for bed, first,” he said, getting up on his feet and offering Crowley a hand. “You can go ahead, while I tidy up a little.”

“I could help you with the dishes, you know. You don’t always have to do it by yourself.”

“Nonsense. If I need help, I’ll ask. Go on now, before it gets too late.” A beat, as Aziraphale’s eyes flitted to Crowley’s face for a moment before glancing away. “All your things are where you left them. You could... well, you could leave them there, if you liked. I don’t mind.”

It felt difficult to swallow, for a moment. No one had ever asked Crowley that.

“It’d be practical, yeah,” he answered, aiming for casual and probably landing a mile off. “Leaving them here instead of dragging them back and forth.”

He was rewarded with a smile so blinding it almost hurt.

“Good, that’s settled then,” Aziraphale said cheerfully, before pushing Crowley gently towards the bedroom. “Chop chop, now. It would be irresponsible of me to keep you up very late tonight, when you have work in the morning.”

“Right, irresponsible,” Crowley muttered, but off he went. He didn’t bother to take any clothes with him, since he supposed he wouldn’t be needing them any time soon, but he hopped gladly into the shower. It felt good to wash away the grime of the day from his skin, and something else seemed to slip off, too, a layer of heartbreak clinging to him like dust.

He took his time, using the douche and washing himself thoroughly, and felt much better as he climbed out. He brushed his teeth, dried off his hair, then took a few extra minutes to decide where to put his stuff. Everything had been where he’d left it, nominally lying about with no order whatsoever, but Crowley felt that if that was to become a more permanent arrangement (and how bloody thrilling that was, Crowley could barely wrap his head around it), then he should try and be a good guest, instead of sprawling his stuff around like he owned the place. He pondered a little on the matter, until he realised that the upper shelf by the mirror sink was empty. Aziraphale liked his beauty products just as much as Crowley did, and the shelf had been crowded with creams and lotions last time he’d been there. Crowley felt something in his stomach flutter a little unsettlingly when he realised that, after their fight, Aziraphale had seen Crowley’s stuff around and instead of throwing it out of the window had made space for him in case he still wanted to stay.

There was something impossibly precious in that thought. Crowley reverently put his stuff on the shelf and walked out, only to find Aziraphale busy rummaging into his toy box.

The sight gave him an entirely new set of flutters into the pit of his stomach.

“Oh, you’re here, good,” Aziraphale said cheerfully, selecting a couple of items and tossing them onto the bed. He took a moment to give Crowley’s naked body an appreciative onceover, before locking the box and putting it away. “I mean to ask if it would be all right for me to use that on you.”

_That_ was apparently a sleek black plug, a bit smaller than the purple one Aziraphale had used on him before. The other item lying next to it was a remote.

Crowley swallowed. They looked lovely, but Crowley wasn’t sure he could bear being played with from afar, right then and there.

Something had to reach his face, because Aziraphale’s smile fell a little.

“Is that too much, love? I’m sorry, perhaps it was a little too soon. How inconsiderate of me. Don’t worry about it. I’ll put them away and we can think of something else.”

“It’s not... that,” Crowley said, putting an end to Aziraphale’s rambling, “it’s just... I need you to touch me, I think. Not that I _mind_ the idea of you playing with me from the other side of the room, watching me, but not now. Is that alright?”

Aziraphale’s eyes were a little glassy as he stared at him, his cheeks rosy.

“That’s...” he started, licking his lips, before trying again, “that’s a lovely picture, my dear, but not what I have in mind. Well, I obviously do _now_, but no, I wasn’t planning to stop touching you any time soon.”

Crowley blinked at him, as he realised that Aziraphale meant to hold him through the entire scene.

“Oh.”

A little glance, a bit uncertain.

“Is that all right?”

Something caught in Crowley’s chest at the thought, body coming deliciously alive. He felt the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end, heat pool in his belly.

“Yeah,” he managed to croak, shivers trailing down his spine. “Sounds good.”

Aziraphale’s smile came back with a vengeance, broad and bright.

“Wonderful. I’ll be back in a jiffy, love. You lie down, get comfortable.” He took Crowley’s dirty clothes from him, then helped him on the bed and picked up a blanket to spread over his naked limbs. “There you are. All warm and cosy.”

“You’d better hurry up, angel, or I’ll be already asleep by the time you come back,” Crowley drawled, but both of them knew that, if anything, he’d be probably half-hard. Aziraphale pressed a kiss on his lips and disappeared into the bathroom, taking one of his favourite tartan pyjamas with him.

Crowley lay there with his eyes closed, listening to the sounds filtering through the closed door and basking into the familiar scents surrounding him. Aziraphale’s bed was a tragedy, but Crowley had grown fond of it. It did hold quite some lovely memories, after all.

Crowley wasn’t really asleep, by the time Aziraphale walked out of the bathroom, but he wasn’t too far behind. The emotional turmoil he’d gone through had taken a toll on him, and he felt completely wiped out. As eager as he was to get Aziraphale’s hands on him, he didn’t think he could actually move a muscle, right then and there, even less get up to much mischief.

Aziraphale seemed to read his mood easily enough. Crowley opened his weary eyes to the gentle touch of lips on him, brushing his mouth in a light kiss. Aziraphale looked scrubbed clean and almost gleaming in the soft lights, his pink cheeks offering a lovely counterpoint to the golden halo of his hair.

“Are you still up for some play, love?” Aziraphale murmured, gently stroking his face. “It’s all right if you aren’t.”

“It depends,” Crowley mumbled. “Do I have to move around much? ‘cause I might be a bit useless right now.”

Aziraphale chuckled.

“Not at all, darling.” Another soft kiss. “After what happened, I think... I think I need to look after you a bit. To prove to myself that I can undo the damage, that I can be good to you.”

“You don’t have to prove anything, angel,” Crowley said, frowning a little. “We’ve already cleared that up. I’m not going to hold anything over your head, I hope you know that.”

“I know, love, I know,” Aziraphale gently shushed him. “I just... I need it. If you don’t mind.”

Crowley could understand that. And he needed to be the focus of Aziraphale’s attention for a while, to soothe that jagged corner of his soul that was still hurting a little.

“Alright,” he whispered, cupping Aziraphale’s cheek and giving him a brief kiss. “What do you want me to do?”

“Not much. I’m taking away the blanket now, and I’d like for you to roll over.”

Despite the warning, the first lick of cool air across his skin startled a hiss out of Crowley, which prompted an amused, shushing sound from Aziraphale. The hideous tartan blanket was then promptly laid over the coverlet, and Crowley gently helped onto it, his bare back exposed to Aziraphale’s hungry eyes. His cock had gone soft again during the time Aziraphale had spent in the bathroom, and Crowley tucked it under his belly like an afterthought.

“My stunning love,” Aziraphale murmured from above, the adoration spilling from his voice working like a balm on whatever was left of Crowley’s frayed nerves. The gentle touch of his fingertips, tracing a line from Crowley’s nape to his arse, sparked a ribbon of heat down Crowley’s skin. “I intend to use my mouth on you. Then my fingers. And then the plug. Would that be all right, darling?”

Crowley felt his stomach drop, cock twitching at the burning heat sizzling just underneath Aziraphale’s soft voice. He couldn’t help but writhe a little against the mattress, chasing just a bit of friction.

“Nnngh,” he mumbled, before remembering his words. “Yes. Fine.”

He let out a shocked gasp at the drag of a fingertip down the cleft of his arse, rubbing gently against his hole to check how relaxed he was. He couldn’t help but push back against the maddening pressure, face smashed against a pillow that smelt like Aziraphale. He felt the blunt tip breach him, just a tiny, maddening bit, before being replaced by the thick pad of a thumb, pressed flat against his hole in a reassuring touch as the wide palm cupped possessively the spare flesh of his buttock.

“My darling, sweet love,” Aziraphale murmured, pressing his lips against Crowley’s shoulder, before slowly moving down the curve of Crowley’s back in a trail of warm, delicate kisses. “I’m sorry if I’ve been cruel. I’m sorry if I hurt you. Please, believe me when I said that I never meant to.”

“I do,” Crowley gasped, legs kicking out as he felt wicked fingers spread him open, a warm mouth press a gentle kiss against his fluttering hole. “I believe you.”

“My tender love, so delicate,” Aziraphale whispered between wet, long kisses. “So beautifully fragile.”

“Yes, well,” Crowley grumbled, fingers clawing at the covers at the rub of gentle lips against oversensitive skin. “I was the one with the bollocks to call first, so you can keep that fragile rubbish to yourself.”

That elicited a surprised snort from Aziraphale, and Crowley couldn’t help a little yelp as sharp teeth sank into the cheek of his bony arse. The yelp turned into a soft, shuddering moan as Aziraphale sucked a bruise into the bite, working the sensitive skin until Crowley was half-hard and writhing in his grasp. Then the moan promptly morphed into a wail, as Aziraphale pressed his thumbs into the gentle slopes of Crowley’s buttocks on either side of his hole and spread him open, before licking a wet, hot strip from the dark place behind his balls to his rim.

“Fuck, _angel_,” Crowley cried out, trying and failing to stay still as Aziraphale rubbed the flat of his tongue against his hole, sucked gently onto the rim and pressed his teeth into the fluttering muscles. “That, _God_, that feels sssssso good, angel, _ngh_.”

It seemed to take Aziraphale forever to breach him, but when he finally did, pushing the tip of his tongue inside, Crowley was biting and groaning into the pillow, not entirely hard but probably leaking all over Aziraphale’s hideous blanket. The soft fleece felt amazing under his cock, his nipples, and Crowley rubbed himself shamelessly against it, enjoying the thrilling drag against his bare skin. Aziraphale’s thumbs were still pressed deep into the slopes of Crowley’s buttocks, but his palms were gripping him right underneath the soft swells of his cheeks, a grasp so hard it almost hurt, and Crowley pushed back into it, groaning at the feeling of Aziraphale’s wicked tongue licking deep inside in slow, thorough swipes.

It seemed to go on forever. Crowley was a shuddering mess, fully hard and painfully turned on, by the time Aziraphale moved away. He felt almost as though his skin was tingling everywhere, electrified and deliciously alive, to the point where even his aching cock seemed like a vague, distant concept. He barely felt Aziraphale lie down beside him, head pillowed on Crowley’s shoulder as he rubbed warmed-up lube onto his wet, loose hole.

Crowley groaned at the stimulation, not too far gone to enjoy the press of Aziraphale’s body against his own, a solid wall fencing him in. There were kisses sprinkling his naked shoulders like an April shower, but Crowley was too focused on the gentle push of two fingers slowly slipping inside to pay much attention to anything else. They felt gloriously thick as they pressed all the way in, Aziraphale’s hard knuckles digging into Crowley’s perineum as his thick thumb rubbed soothingly the tender stripe of skin just above his rim.

“I will never grow tired of this, darling, of using my hands on you,” Aziraphale whispered into his ear, before pressing a kiss to his cheek entirely too tender for the way his fingers were steadily pumping in and out of Crowley’s stretched hole. Crowley let out a sound that could only be described as _mewling_, much to his chagrin, as he rubbed his flagging cock against the blanket, unable to do anything but take the pleasure being steadily milked out of him in waves.

Aziraphale felt warm and soft and lovely against Crowley’s side, the soft fabric of his pyjama a maddening drag against Crowley’s bare skin. His teeth were just the right side of sharp as they nipped at the thin skin of Crowley’s shoulder, tongue quick to soothe the sting as his lips sucked the blood onto the surface in what Crowley was vaguely aware would become a veritable constellation of bruises. His fingers were a maddening pressure inside Crowley’s malleable body, thrusting inside only to pull out slowly, stretching the rim over their combined girth so that Aziraphale could play with it with his thumb, rubbing at the painfully oversensitive skin. He was expertly avoiding Crowley’s prostate, choosing to drag on the simple, primeval ecstasy of being filled, of having his rim played with, which he knew was more than enough to draw Crowley insane. Crowley shuddered and gasped and clawed at the sheets as Aziraphale went on and on, stopping only to apply some more lube before returning to his task.

He was loose and a little aching when Aziraphale finally pulled out his fingers, body racked with shivers. A helpless little keen escaped his lips at the feeling of being empty, of having Aziraphale shifting slightly away from him. Aziraphale was back in a moment, the press of his lips soft and tender against Crowley’s temple.

“Hush, my darling boy,” Aziraphale whispered, fingers tangling into Crowley’s hair and applying just the right amount of pressure to force Crowley to focus on the pull. Crowley also felt something else–a slippery, unyielding pressure against his perineum, rubbing against damp skin. He wailed at the stimulation, pushing back against it as he buried his head into the soft pillow. “My poor love, feeling empty and bereft. Don’t be afraid, sweetheart. I’ll take such a good care of you.”

Crowley shuddered at the violent tenderness ringing into Aziraphale’s soft voice, just as the slim, hard shape of the toy pressed up against his tender rim. He had been played with so thoroughly that the bulbous head slipped inside without much fanfare, stopping just before the flared base. Crowley clenched reflexively around it, relishing the soothing feeling of being full again and dimly realising that he hadn’t really needed that sort of preparation to take the small plug. Aziraphale simply enjoyed fingering him way too much to let such a golden opportunity pass him by.

Once the plug was in place, Aziraphale sat with his back against the headboard and wrangled Crowley into his arms. Crowley struggled to help, vaguely more present than usual but fighting against an impossible weariness settling heavy into his bones. Every movement also jostled the plug inside his arse, and Crowley gasped and shuddered his way into Aziraphale’s arms. Eventually, he found himself curled against that broad chest, skin tingling at the cool touch of smooth buttons, at the gentle drag of fabric. He pressed his nose into Aziraphale’s neck with a quiet sigh, breathing him in, Aziraphale’s soft pyjama top bunched up in his hand and his tender arse carefully cradled between Aziraphale’s sturdy thighs.

“Here you are, my dearest love,” Aziraphale whispered, slowly reaching out to grab the blanket and wrap Crowley’s shivering form in it.

The soft fleece felt almost like too much stimulation for his wired-up body, and Crowley gasped into Aziraphale’s neck, only half-aware of Aziraphale’s loving whispers. He could feel precome dripping onto his own stomach, his hard cock lying against the protective curl of his belly. The blanket smelt like himself and like Aziraphale, always like Aziraphale, and Crowley felt surrounded by him in a way that transcended flesh and blood, each of his senses gorged full with Aziraphale’s presence.

Another minute shift, as Aziraphale plucked a glossy black rectangle from one of the creases in the coverlet. The remote, Crowley distantly realised.

“I’ll turn on the plug, now” Aziraphale murmured, both arms curled securely around Crowley’s shivering body. “Or is this too much, love?”

It took Crowley two attempts to answer.

“No, please. ‘m fine. You can... you can switch it on.”

A sweet press of lips against his temple.

“As you wish, my sweet boy.”

Crowley couldn’t help but cry out as the plug spluttered into life, the painfully delicious waves spreading through clenched muscles and straight into electrified nerve endings. The vibration was so intense it was nearly violent, and Crowley was torn between the instinct to grind down onto the mattress, pushing the plug even deeper, and yank it out. Aziraphale pressed a kiss atop his head and cradled him even closer, as Crowley shook in helpless ecstasy.

“There you are, my love,” Aziraphale murmured, covering his face in kisses. “Just like that. Is it too much? Do you need to come, darling?”

Crowley shuddered. His hard cock was leaking against his belly, straining and aching, and his balls were drawn up tight under the shaft, but he wanted that to last. There was something viciously intimate in that feeling of being utterly enfolded by Aziraphale’s body, cradled so close while his body was so expertly wound up tighter and tighter, and Crowley didn’t want it to end.

“Not yet,” he gasped, hiding his face in Aziraphale’s neck. “Talk to me.”

“Of course, love. My darling love. What is it that you want to hear?”

“Anything,” Crowley gasped, helplessly tugging at Aziraphale’s pyjama top. “I don’t care. I want to hear your voice.”

A low hum, as Aziraphale stroked his hair ever so tenderly.

“Shall I read to you, then?”

“Please.”

A little jostling, as Aziraphale reached out for something–probably the book he always kept on his night table. Crowley wondered vaguely what it would be that evening.

“When I had done breakfasting,” Aziraphale started, “the squire gave me a note addressed to John Silver, at the sign of the Spy-glass, and told me I should easily find the place by following the line of the docks...”

Crowley hid a smirk, as he curled up tighter against Aziraphale’s chest. _Treasure Island_. That wasn’t exactly what Crowley had expected to find in his library, but he wasn’t really surprised.

Aziraphale’s soothing voice droned on and on, and Crowley let himself be lulled by the sweet sound of it, using it to tune out everything that wasn’t the steady buzzing of his body. Aziraphale was keeping his book up with one hand, but still carefully cradling Crowley to his chest with the other, Crowley’s bony back firmly secured in the curve of his arm while he balanced the remote against the side of Crowley’s elbow. Crowley could feel the hard shape of it even through the thick layer of the blanket, faint and subtly thrilling.

It seemed to go on forever. Every time his tired, aching cock would show signs of flagging a bit, Aziraphale turned up a notch the vibration of the plug with almost preternatural precision, sparking a new wave of shuddering pleasure through Crowley’s exhausted nervous system. And no matter how pitifully Crowley gasped and moaned against Aziraphale’s neck–he kept on reading, a hitch in his steady, soft voice the only sign he was affected in some way.

Eventually, it became too much. Crowley had lost the count of how many times the vibration setting had been turned up, but he found himself squirming in Aziraphale’s lap, cock hard and leaking and aching, every whisper of fabric against his oversensitive skin nearly enough to topple him over. It had been good, it had been _lovely_, exactly what Crowley had needed, but he couldn’t hold on much longer.

“Angel,” he panted, tugging desperately at Aziraphale’s pyjama top as the plug hummed away inside his body.

That seemed enough of a cue for Aziraphale. He put down his book and slipped a hand between the overlapping folds of the blanket, whispering sweet nothings into Crowley’s hair as he found Crowley’s cock and wrapped his hand around the hard shaft, giving a first, experimental pull.

It was nearly too much. Between the never-ending stimulation of his abused, tender hole and the firm grasp of Aziraphale’s hand around his cock, Crowley’s overloaded nerve endings sparked a spike of pleasure so violent it was almost painful. Crowley cried out at the onslaught, shuddering pitifully in Aziraphale’s arms as heat pooled in his belly, electricity dancing over his skin like the air before a storm.

“I have you, love, I have you,” Aziraphale murmured, tight fist sliding slowly up and down Crowley’s shaft with the exact amount of pressure Crowley needed, excruciatingly and impossibly good. “Breathe through it, darling, like that. Is it good, sweetheart? Do you need more?”

_More_ seemed like an impossible concept, right then and there, but Crowley found himself _wanting_. He wanted more, and more, and more. He wanted everything Aziraphale could give him, until there would be nothing left for anyone else. He was selfish and greedy and he loved Aziraphale so fucking much. That was why he would respect Aziraphale’s choices, and no other reason beyond that.

“I love you, angel,” he gasped, fingers winding up tight around white-blond curls. “Make me come.”

“Yes, dearest,” Aziraphale whispered, the steady pumping of his hand turning quicker, purposeful, until Crowley spilled into his fist with a loud, shuddering wail, pleasure torn out of his belly in a terrible white-hot wave. He shook as he came, one spurt after the other, until there was nothing left. Only then Aziraphale relented, pressing his cheek against the top of Crowley’s head and cradling him close as though he was the most precious thing he’d ever touched. Crowley was shaking so hard he barely felt the plug being turned off, his own gasps so loud they blotted out everything else.

“I love you so desperately, my darling,” Aziraphale murmured into Crowley’s hair, his grasp so tight it was almost painful. Crowley relished the sting of it, Aziraphale’s grip keeping him together as he panted through the aftershocks, his body alight and his skin full enough of static energy to feel one spark away from cracking open.

He didn’t answer, allowing the unbridled adoration spilling from Aziraphale’s voice to wash over him. He was so tired, he could do with a little rest. He was safe there, after all.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the best readers, hands down. I’ve never expected such a response for this story, and you blow my mind every time I update a new chapter. Your love is treasured like the bloody gift that it is, and I have no words to thank you enough for it.  
The usual shout-out to [uponwhatgrounds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uponwhatgrounds/pseuds/uponwhatgrounds), who gifted me with [this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25128289/chapters/63237916) delightful piece of art for the last chapter. Thank you so much, as always. I absolutely love the way you bring my story to life, and I can't even begin to express my gratitude for your kindness.  
I hope you all will like the chapter <3

Crowley cracked an eye open, as he was gently jostled from his tight curl in Aziraphale’s lap. He peeked through his lashes at Aziraphale plucking a napkin from the dispenser on the night table and wiping his hand clean, before turning towards Crowley with a beaming smile.

“Oh, good, you’re still awake,” he chirped, though Crowley couldn’t rightly say how on Earth Aziraphale had managed to find that out from the tiny slits left open by his mostly shut lids. “You look knackered, dear. We should get you cleaned up and into bed, before you fall asleep like this.”

“’m not going anywhere, angel,” Crowley grumbled, winding his arms around Aziraphale’s neck and snuggling closer–or at least trying to, since they were already as close to each other as physics and biology allowed. “’m way too comfortable where I am.”

Aziraphale chuckled affectionately.

“Then let me do that for you,” he whispered into Crowley’s hair, voice turning lower. “Plugs are not meant to be worn for too long. I’ll clean you up and put you to bed. How does that sound, darling?”

It sounded way too good, way too soon, if the helpless twitch of Crowley’s spent cock was anything to go by. He shuddered in Aziraphale’s arms, arousal lapping at him in a brief but nearly overwhelming tide. He was still catching his breath, for crying out loud.

His mouth, however, seemed to have a mind of its own, when it came to being wound up so soon after having barely touched ground.

“Fine,” he rasped, regretting it immediately when Aziraphale’s first attempt at extricating them jolted the plug in his arse and sent a shockwave through his body strong enough to make him gasp for air. He was still shaking helplessly through it as Aziraphale carefully laid him down, wrapping him up in the blanket before lovingly running his knuckles over Crowley’s temple.

“Don’t move, love,” he hummed, pressing a gentle kiss against Crowley’s lips. “I’ll be right back.”

Crowley closed his eyes as the bed gently dipped under Aziraphale’s weigh, and listened vaguely at the sound of footfalls shortly followed by running water. He felt tender and well-used, aching in a wonderful way. He was still buzzing with the last dwindling sparks of his orgasm, body cooling slowly in the stifling cocoon of Aziraphale’s blanket and drumming heart gradually calming down to a more sedated beating. His skin was a bit tacky with sweat and drying come, but all in all he felt better than he’d felt since that wretched fight.

The sting of it would take a while to die out, but there was something impossibly reassuring in the feeling of being loved despite the ugliness of their argument. Crowley realised with a start that he hadn’t really believed their relationship could survive a falling out, and wondered for an uncomfortable moment whether he’d simply assumed that Aziraphale would never push back if riled up, or that his own wretched self would just bow to every request and never speak his mind. Neither option seemed a good recipe for a healthy relationship, and Crowley felt somewhat comforted by the thought that they could and would stand their ground, even against each other, and not fall apart because of it. He doubted that would be their last fight, as upsetting as the idea of going through that sort of hurt again was, but knowing that they could pull through meant more than never having had a fight at all.

But those sorts of thoughts were not fit for such a glorious afterglow. Crowley idly took stock of his body, the places where it ached, the sticky satisfaction clinging to his skin. He clenched around the plug still stuck inside him and thrilled at the spark of arousal curling deep into his belly. He loved revelling in the subtle pleasure of being stretched full straight after an orgasm, and dimly realised that Aziraphale was well aware of that, and had probably left the plug in place a little longer on purpose.

Crowley stretched his limbs luxuriously, toying lazily with the idea of getting Aziraphale to peak inside him and then plug him full of his come. That would be a first, and while Crowley still wasn’t particularly fond of the thought of being less than experienced in every single facet of bedroom activities, he found himself quite taken with that specific picture. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d trusted anyone to come inside him at all–perhaps somewhere a couple of decades before. He’d liked it, the ferocious intimacy of it. And he had an inkling that Aziraphale would spark something even stronger, deep beneath the skin. There was still the question of whether Aziraphale would be amenable to try that out, but Crowley was rather confident he would. Aziraphale liked to pretend otherwise, but the man had a possessive streak a mile wide, and Crowley would’ve bet his Bentley on him secretly thrilling about Crowley wearing something of him so deeply and intimately inside his body for a while.

It was in the midst of these very deep musings that Aziraphale finally came back, wet washcloth in hand. He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled aside the overlapping folds of the blanket, exposing Crowley’s overheated body to the cool air of the flat. Crowley relished the feeling, this time, and sighed sweetly as the sweat finally started to dry out on his warm skin.

The cool drag of the washcloth across his collarbones was also extremely appreciated, and Crowley hummed under his breath as Aziraphale rubbed his chest clean. Even the friction against his chest hairs felt marvellous, and Crowley relaxed in increments under Aziraphale’s careful ministrations, until he was about ready to melt into the mattress.

He let out a low grumble when Aziraphale stood up to freshen up his washcloth, prompting a soft chuckle that kept him company as Aziraphale disappeared into the bathroom. He returned short after, resuming his place by Crowley’s side and carefully rubbing his belly clean.

“How lovely you are,” Aziraphale murmured, cupping Crowley’s soft cock in his palm and washing it ever so tenderly. The delicate drag of cloth against oversensitive skin was almost too much, but Crowley swallowed the hiss coming unbidden to his lips, relishing with a spark of desperation the devoted care being lavished upon him. He could drown in it and still not be satisfied, and he looked up at Aziraphale’s loving face with a lump in his throat.

That almost overwhelming feeling of silent adoration spiked up into a spark of molten heat, as Aziraphale came back from the bathroom with a freshly rinsed washcloth and sat a little lower down the bed, gently parting Crowley’s legs. Crowley swallowed thickly as he allowed himself to be manhandled until one of his calves was resting onto Aziraphale’s thighs, and his bent legs displayed shamelessly the plug still stuck into his hole.

Aziraphale, too, seemed a little lost into the moment. He took his time, distractedly petting the hairy calf in his lap as he watched in silence, eyes a bit glassy and cheeks delightfully pink. Then he leant over, carefully rubbing the wet cloth against the tender skin of Crowley’s inner thighs. The drag, the pressure, were exquisite, just the right side of too much, and Crowley couldn’t help squirming a little under Aziraphale meticulous ministrations. The feverish intimacy of that gentle care spiked up to a frenzy, however, when Aziraphale delicately propped Crowley’s soft cock onto his own belly and cradled his bollocks, looking at them shockingly close to make sure that no flack of come was sticking to the dark wispy hairs after wiping them clean. Then the grip on his testicles shifted a little, and before Crowley knew what was happening Aziraphale had lifted them gently to get a better look at Crowley’s stretched hole. There was an impossible focus shimmering in his unblinking eyes, and Aziraphale allowed his gaze to linger, flushed and still like a statue between Crowley’s spread legs and with Crowley’s vulnerable bullocks lovingly cradled in his palm.

The strangled groan coming unbidden to Crowley’s lips seemed to wrench Aziraphale back to the present. He blinked, looking up at Crowley’s burning face and then back at the plug mercilessly holding him open. Crowley couldn’t help but glance away, embarrassed by the heat he felt rising onto his cheeks.

“I have no words to describe the glory of you, darling,” Aziraphale sighed, balling the wet washcloth in his palm to free his fingers before reaching for the plug. “And I know how oversensitive you are right now, but it needs to come out. Take a deep breath and relax, sweetheart. I’ll be gentle.”

Crowley shuddered at the sizzling tenderness of those words, doing his best to relax as Aziraphale carefully pulled at the plug. His well-used rim protested at the stretch, as it was forced to accommodate the thickest part of the bulbous head, but then the rest was slipping out in a blink. Aziraphale tossed the thing on a corner of the blanket without losing his delicate grip on Crowley’s bollocks, held up nicely out of the way. The pull stung a little, but way less than knowing that Aziraphale was staring straight at his fluttering, loose hole. They’d done that a few times by now, but not nearly enough for Crowley to get used to it. He threw an arm over his eyes and did his level best to lie still, as Aziraphale ever so gently washed up the dried-up lube from his taint.

“Here you are, now, all cleaned up,” Aziraphale cheerfully said, as he finally let go of Crowley’s testicles and allowed him a modicum of decency. Crowley took a peek from under his arm, and saw the colour high on Aziraphale’s cheeks, the shine on his lips given by licking them over and over and over. He also saw the very unsubtle shape of an erection pushing against the strained fabric of Aziraphale’s ugly pyjama bottom.

He lowered his arm, blinking a moment in the sudden light before focusing on Aziraphale’s flushed face. Bright eyes looked back at him, a charged smile on that lovely mouth.

“Let me,” Crowley said, voice low and husky, already reaching out. But his hand was caught by Aziraphale, and gently brought to plush lips.

“Thank you, love, but there is no need,” Aziraphale murmured, placing a string of warm, lingering kisses across Crowley’s palm. “I assure you, I’m perfectly all right.”

Crowley frowned, a little confused, and a whole lot too turned on and wiped out at the same time to get into very complicated trains of thoughts.

“You’re hard.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale conceded, a chuckle hiding in his low voice, “I am. It will pass.”

“Don’t you want me to do something about it?” Crowley asked, utterly confused now.

Aziraphale moved on to Crowley’s fingers, kissing them one by one.

“Not really, no.” He pressed Crowley’s hand to his face, his cheek blistering warm against Crowley’s palm. His eyes were gleaming like stars as they watched Crowley from above. “What I want right now is to get you into those utterly inadequate pieces of cloth you call sleepwear and under the covers, then hold you until you fall asleep.”

Crowley felt something catch into his throat, breath struggling to come out. The sizzling fondness in Aziraphale’s face was too much to bear, and Crowley had to look away, put some distance between them before his heart gave out.

“Corny, angel. Really. Corny.”

“Hm,” Aziraphale huffed, a little too amused for Crowley’s taste, “you’re the one who insists on calling me angel. Perhaps we have that in common.”

Crowley didn’t grace that with an answer, and Aziraphale was chuckling to himself as he carefully pulled Crowley’s calf off his lap and got onto his feet. He disappeared into the bathroom with the dirty washcloth in tow, and Crowley listened for a short moment to the sound of running water until he was back.

“May I look into your bag for your clothes, dear?” Aziraphale asked, ever so prim. Crowley waved him away.

“’course you can.”

He was back less than two minutes later, Crowley’s black sleepwear in hand. Not that there was much in his bag to parse through, after all.

“Do you own anything at all that’s not black, darling?” Aziraphale asked him, settling on the edge of the bed and primly smoothing Crowley’s nicely folded sleepwear onto his lap. “Sit up, love.”

It took Crowley a moment to realise that Aziraphale, true to his words, intended to get Crowley _personally_ into his clothes. The thought of being dressed like a toddler shouldn’t have been as violently arousing as Crowley was obviously finding it, and he felt his cheeks heating up as he scrambled to obey.

“I’ll let you know that I also have some deep red and purple and charcoal grey in my closet, thank you very much,” he grumbled, his voice a little muffled by the vest being carefully pulled down his head.

“A true spot of colour, nothing to say about that,” Aziraphale purred, utterly ignoring Crowley’s indignant splutter and carefully pulling the black boxers up Crowley’s thighs. “Lift up your bum a little, love. There you are. My sweet boy.”

The endearments, the gesture, turned Crowley’s clever retort into a garbled mumbled with no intelligible word in it, predicament that was very much not improved by Aziraphale gently tucking Crowley’s spent prick under the waistband of his boxer and rearranging it until it was neatly nestled against the hollow of his left hip. The bastard even seemed to know how Crowley liked to wear his cock, for crying out loud.

Aziraphale didn’t bother to acknowledge Crowley’s attempt at a reply, urging Crowley under the covers instead. He went back to the bathroom to dispose of the filthy blanket, then he was slipping into bed, cradling Crowley against his chest and kissing the top of his head. He was still half-hard, Crowley discovered as he settled down, and it would take very little to rile him up, but Crowley decided against it. If Aziraphale would rather be close to Crowley than get a nice orgasm, well. Crowley couldn’t say he _liked_ it, since he had a dangerous weakness for pleasuring Aziraphale, but he could humour him. He wrapped his long limbs around Aziraphale’s stocky body and hid a smile against the soft fabric of his pyjama top as Aziraphale peppered the top of Crowley’s head with slow kisses.

“Will you be all right alone for Christmas, love?” Aziraphale whispered, a while later. His voice was low and delicate, as if pulled almost unwillingly out of his chest. He obviously didn’t want to bring up the fight, or worst, give Crowley reason to ask to go with him once more, but he was concerned enough to risk another heartbreaking moment to make sure that Crowley would be all right. The thought sparked a ribbon of warmth so deep into Crowley’s chest he almost felt it crackling onto his skin.

“Sure, angel, I’ll be right as rain,” he mumbled, trying and failing to wake up completely for that conversation. He’d been on the verge of falling asleep, and his exhausted body wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about being denied once again. “But I want to hear from you. Every day. Don’t care what that family of yours gets up to.”

Another kiss, slow and lingering, as the grasp of Aziraphale’s arms around his back turned just a little bit tighter.

“Of course, love.”

“And...” A beat, as Crowley reconsidered for a split of a second the decision he was impulsively about to make, before deciding that fuck it, he was going with his guts, “and I’d like it very much if you came over to mine for New Year’s Eve. I have a few vacation days left. We could have a little holiday of our own. You know. If you wanted.”

They were so close that Crowley heard the breath catching in Aziraphale’s chest as though it was his own, and realised dimly that perhaps that invitation had been a bit overdue. He hadn’t meant to hide his flat or his stuff, not really. It was simply more convenient to meet up at Aziraphale’s, who lived in the city, instead of going to his own place lost in the middle of the woods, and Crowley had come to like the cluttered flat more than his own. But he could imagine how that must have looked, and perhaps he’d been a bit remiss on that particular matter.

“I’d love to, darling,” Aziraphale whispered, fingers treading tenderly into Crowley’s hair. “I’d love to see your home. And spend a few days with you.”

“Hmm. I’ll have a look tomorrow, talk to my boss,” Crowley mumbled, his nice speech getting neatly broken up by a yawn. “Call me back tomorrow evening?”

“Of course, love.” Another kiss, even slower, lingering a little longer. “I have a late shift tomorrow. I’ll call you during my break. Same time as usual. I’ll have a look as well, see what I can do.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Crowley mumbled. He was starting to drift off again, way too relaxed after being on the edge of exhaustion for so long to have the will to fight it much longer. “Think ‘m about to drop dead now, angel. ‘m sorry.”

Another kiss, somewhere far off.

“Don’t be, love. Sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Crowley snuggled a little closer, and did just that.

* * *

As promised, Aziraphale was indeed there when Crowley woke up, but dead to the world and in absolutely no mood to do anything but keep on sleeping. He grumbled at Crowley’s attempts at pulling away from his vice-like grip, then kept on grumbling as Crowley pressed a quick kiss to his cheek before leaving the bed, and eventually grumbled some more when Crowley came back to say goodbye.

“I’ll call you tonight, love,” Aziraphale eventually managed to grind out, before dragging the covers above his head. “Now kindly let me sleep.”

“Now kindly fuck off, Crowley, I have no intention whatsoever to get up before noon,” Crowley mimicked him, prompting a disembodied arm to emerge from the tangle of covers and slap his thigh.

“I never said that,” Aziraphale muttered. Crowley caught the flailing hand and kissed the knuckles.

“I know, I know. I’ll talk to you tonight.”

“Good,” Aziraphale mumbled, pulling his hand away and curling up under the covers. “Have a nice day, darling.”

Crowley was still chuckling as he closed the door of Aziraphale’s apartment behind him, ten minutes later, since he couldn’t find his blasted sunglasses in the clutter and he’d liked far better his chances of braving the mess by himself than poking Aziraphale out of his bed. He still managed to get to work in time, and he was already well into his second cup of coffee and a rather unsettling e-mail about a frighteningly excessive new pet shop in Chelsea when Anathema popped out of nowhere to bestow upon him a frankly disturbing grin.

“Hello, Crowley,” she chirped, cradling a stack of papers to her chest while staring at him as though he was a bug under a magnifying glass (impression not disabused in the slightest by how enormous her thick horn-rimmed glasses made her eyes look). “How are you on this fine morning?”

Crowley’s eyebrow reached his hairline, as he threw a dubious glance at her from the corner of his eye.

“Positively chuffed, as you can obviously see, and delighted to be here,” he grumbled back. He’d discovered quite a constellation of bruises on his neck and shoulders during his morning shower, and while they had been easy to hide under the high collar of his charcoal grey (ah!) turtleneck, he couldn’t find a comfortable way to sit down with the way Aziraphale’s purple bite mark was throbbing on his arse. “What about you? Happy as a clam?”

Anathema scoffed at him, as she always did every time he uttered his favourite American expressions in a deliberately heavy-handed British accent.

“I wouldn’t go that far, but at least I haven’t turned into a grumpy old man yet,” she shot back, unnecessarily readjusting her glasses in a show of dramatic disdain. “I talked to Tracy, by the way.”

Crowley stared blankly at her for a moment, before remembering exactly who Tracy was, why Anathema might have had the chance to talk to her, and why on Earth that had any bearing on him. He considered for a moment feigning ignorance, but the evil gleam in Anathema’s eyes told him very clearly that every attempt at deflecting what was to come would be futile at best. He took a deep breath, resigning himself to the inevitable.

“And?” he muttered, because while he might entertain the idea of giving ground, that didn’t mean he’d do it with any good grace.

Anathema, shockingly enough, fairly _tittered_ at that.

“You went to pick Aziraphale up from work.”

“And?”

“Tracy told me you looked utterly _besotted_ with him.”

Crowley reared back at the indignity of that statement, though far less than he would’ve done months before. He was losing his edge. How sad.

“I resent that,” he hissed, lifting his head to stare at Anathema rather dramatically down his nose. “I am not, and I’ve never been in my entire life, _besotted_ with anything or anyone.”

Anathema answered with a rather indelicate snort, pushing back a loose dark curl from her face in a swirl of black lace hanging from her long sleeve.

“Of course you are. You think you are very clever, getting all defensive every time we talk about Aziraphale, but that’s a glaring mark as any. And then you forget your mission of looking cool at all costs for a moment and get this dorky dopey face. It’s actually adorable.”

“_Adorable_?!” Crowley hissed, utterly affronted. “I’m not the bloody kitten your six-year-old self never got, I’m a grown man! And, and, ‘m not _dorky_, what does that even _mean_? You Americans and your penchant for inventing words, I swear!”

Anathema snorted, again, loud enough that Crowley caught sight with overwhelming dismay of a few heads starting to turn.

“Right, it’s not like you Brits enjoy making stuff up, after all. Chuffed and miffed and knackered and tosh. All shipshape and Bristol fashion, here.”

“Ugh, your British accent is abysmal,” Crowley groaned. “Please, it’s actually painful to hear.”

“And I did have a kitten, actually,” Anathema cheerfully carried on, ignoring him completely. “Mom got it when I was four, the cutest mixed-breed I’ve ever seen. I called him Onza and you’re not even half as adorable as he was, though you do make a compelling case, according to Tracy. I guess I’ll have to see for myself.”

Crowley fixed a mistrustful glare on her.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, you remember Newton, don’t you?” Anathema airily chuckled, all bright smiles and pitiless eyes. “He works at the library, too. And he’s lucky enough to have a day off on Friday, and all the time in the world to come to the staff party. I can’t just let him go alone, now, can I?”

Crowley groaned, loud and unrestrained, this time. Just the thing he needed. A nosy nineteen-year-old fawning over them like a box full of puppies. And Aziraphale would probably find such mortifying ordeal _amusing_, if not downright delightful. Crowley considered for a moment the option of staying home, after all, but dismissed it so quickly he scoffed silently at himself. It would take something much worse than Anathema and her way-too-keen eyes for him to turn down time, any time, spent with Aziraphale. And he did want to see his friends, to meet the people that shared his life when Crowley wasn’t around.

(If there was a slightly possessive streak intertwined to that thought, well, no one really had to know.)

He gave Anathema his nastiest glare.

“Just, try not to embarrass me, if at all possible,” he muttered.

He got an outraged gasp for his trouble, and a dramatically overstated one at that.

“Anthony J. Crowley, you wound me,” Anathema theatrically moaned. “As if I could ever do such a thing.”

Crowley scoffed, squirming once again on the chair as the bruise on his arse protested against a particularly uncomfortable position.

“I don’t trust you in the same room with Aziraphale,” Crowley grumbled, only to be met by yet another amused snort.

“That should be my line, if anything. I remember perfectly well introducing the two of you, and you doing your level best to be an insufferable asshole.” A sharp, wicked grin. “You should thank me for not having thrown my spoon at you.”

Crowley had to laugh at that. It’d been merely what, two months prior? Yet it felt like an entire epoch had come and gone, tectonic plates reshaping the ground under his feet as the time sped inexorably by.

And yes. Crowley was none too pleased by that, but he had to admit that Anathema was right. He’d been a bit of an arse, hadn’t he? Trying to get a rise out of Anathema’s fretful librarian friend. It felt almost comical to think about Aziraphale as nothing but that, after everything that had happened. Especially after getting up with him to the kinkiest sex he’d ever experienced in almost forty years.

But none of that, now. The last thing he wanted was to think about sex (especially sex with Aziraphale) with Anathema standing right in front of him. He could’ve sworn she was capable of sniffing out naughty thoughts at will, like a bloodhound on a scent.

There were also less-than-amusing memories tied to that very first encounter, but they seemed almost silly now, uncertainties blown out of proportion. Aziraphale wanted him, always had. Crowley had an emphatically bothersome bruise on his arse to prove it.

(And a tad less tenderness about his rim than he’d liked. He missed being buggered, he really did. It hadn’t been that long, granted, but he missed it nevertheless. It was frankly alarming how he’d want nothing more than getting into all sorts of naughty things whenever Aziraphale was involved. They got up to some serious mischief several times a week, yet he felt more sexually starved than he’d had when he’d got a quick shag every month or so. His hunger for Aziraphale was a living thing, and he couldn’t wait to get him all to himself for a few days. With nothing around to distract them, isolated in the middle of nowhere as his house was, Crowley fully intended to scratch that itch once and for all.)

He blinked his eyes, forcibly shaking himself out of his reverie at the smirking, knowing look blossoming all over Anathema’s face.

“I might have been a bit snippy, I grant you that,” Crowley magnanimously conceded, getting a pointed scoff for an answer, “but all turned out for the best, didn’t it?”

“Oh yes, I think that soppy, dreamy look you got a moment ago agrees with you,” Anathema snickered, dramatically misinterpreting the direction taken by Crowley’s rambling thoughts on the matter.

Crowley pondered the issue for a moment, and eventually decided against disabusing her of that notion. It was for the best, after all.

* * *

The day went by quickly, brightened by Anathema’s presence. She wasn’t going to be around much longer (just that day and the one after, to tidy up her things before the Christmas vacation), at least until the beginning of the next term, and she seemed determined to store up as much quality time with Crowley as she was able to for rainy days. The fact that Crowley wasn’t actively avoiding her, for once, encouraged her to pop by his desk time and time again, chattering about the oncoming party, whispering cattily about people they both knew at the office and now at her library, talking extensively about her Christmas vacation and, of course, gossiping about Aziraphale. She seemed oddly shocked by Aziraphale’s refusal to celebrate Christmas with Crowley, which he wildly guessed had to be an American thing, and would’ve had a few stern words with the man if Crowley hadn’t (quite amusedly) stopped her. He told her about their idea of spending New Year’s Eve together, if a bit shyly (and utterly piqued at feeling _shy_, of all things), and that seemed to pacify her some. Beelzebub had looked none too pleased about Crowley’s request for a few days off right during the Christmas vacation, when the staff was already stretched thin, but he didn’t seem particularly keen on having him around either, so eventually Crowley had got what he wanted (and been immediately forced to share the good news with their nosy intern).

By the time he’d got home, he was positively bouncing on his feet. The day had done wonders to erase whatever lingering dark feelings had stayed with him after the fight, and Crowley was in high spirits when the time came for Aziraphale’s call. He’d kept the phone in the back pocket of his jeans, and managed to pick up the call at the first ring as he got started on the fillet steak he was planning to supper with. Marinating some meat and then cooking it just enough to get it bloody was just within his pitiful abilities in the kitchen area, and he’d decided to forego take away for once.

“Hello, angel,” he purred into the speaker, as he turned up the heat under the iron-cast skillet and then proceeded to sprinkle the marinating steak with some pepper. It was a nice, thick cut, just enough juicy-looking to make him salivate at the mere sight.

“Good evening, darling.” Aziraphale’s voice was warm, deliciously intimate, which probably meant he’d found a secluded place for his phone call. Aziraphale always sounded delighted to speak to him, but there was a charged, almost purring quality to his voice rustling in the background whenever they were alone. “How was your day?”

“Hm. Good. Anathema was there.” He took a moment to judge whether the skillet was hot enough, then drizzled some oil into it. “Talked to my boss, got the days I wanted. An entire week, from the thirtieth to the third. What ‘bout you, angel?”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to work on the thirtieth, love,” Aziraphale answered with obvious regret, “but I’m free from the thirty-first to the third, too. The library is closed on the first, and I’ll have to work on the fourth -a Saturday, that is-, but we’ll still have four days together. Is that... is that what you wanted?”

Crowley blinked a moment in confusion, before realising that Aziraphale was unsure about the extent of Crowley’s invitation. It felt somewhat soothing, to know that they shared the same reservations. Crowley hoped such uncertainties would fade with time, but it was comforting to know he wasn’t alone in all that.

“’s perfect, angel. Four days together.” A break, as he decided how much he wanted to push, and then throwing his caution to the wind and pressing anyway. “I could still pick you up on the thirtieth, if you wanted. After work. If it’s not too late.”

“Oh, darling, that would be lovely, but I can’t imagine imposing on you like that...”

“You’re not imposing, I’d be happy to,” Crowley earnestly answered, then added, a bit clumsily, “but you don’t have to feel like you have to. If you’d rather come by the day after, that’s alright too. It’s a possibility, though. I wanted you to know that.”

That was... atrociously awkward. Crowley wasn’t really used to feel that way with Aziraphale anymore, even if the aftermath of their fight had been an unpleasant and unnecessary reminder, and he didn’t like it one bit. He’d grown jealous of the easy feeling with which he seemed to slot effortlessly into Aziraphale’s life, and Aziraphale into his own, and wasn’t particularly keen on accidentally cutting his fingers on the sharp edges of that sudden nervousness.

“I have a middle shift on the thirtieth,” Aziraphale eventually replied. “I won’t be done before half past seven in the evening. It’s going to be a bit late. Are you sure you don’t mind, love?”

He didn’t seem too convinced about that, and Crowley took a moment to feel irrationally hurt before forcing himself to take a step back and actually assess the situation. Aziraphale was a creature of habits, and disliked being rushed into things. If the man wanted to relax at home after a long day at work instead of being swept away to the edges of the city so late in the evening, Crowley could understand. He was still irrationally put-out at the idea of losing an evening with Aziraphale, even if that evening would barely include getting ready for bed and then promptly falling asleep, but he could understand.

“I don’t mind, angel,” Crowley answered, softer than usual, “but it’s alright if you do. I could pick you up the morning after, no bother at all.”

“Oh, darling,” Aziraphale sighed, warmth spiking in his voice, “it’s just... it’ll be the first time I get to see your home, and I don’t want to be too tired to appreciate the experience. And rushing to the flat to pick up my things after work...” A break, as Aziraphale let out another frustrated sigh. “Oh, this is so selfish of me, isn’t it? You always come here straight from the office, and you never complain. And falling asleep with you is always so lovely. You can come pick me up on the thirtieth, if you’d like.”

Something warm sparked in Crowley’s chest, at Aziraphale’s obvious attempt at pleasing him. It was a strange feeling, to realise that he wasn’t the only one ready to bend a little. And Aziraphale had always been more than willing to meet him halfway, after all.

“You don’t have to answer now, angel. We could always come back to it later, if you’d rather.”

Crowley smiled to himself at the relief his answer immediately sparked.

“Oh, love, that would be brilliant. You wouldn’t mind, though, would you? If this silly old man of yours took his time to decide?” A pause, as Aziraphale’s voice turned fretful. “Please, do no not think I don’t want to spend some extra time with you. It’s really not that.”

“I know, angel, I know,” Crowley soothed him, the spark of warmth in his chest turning into a veritable wildfire, “don’t worry ‘bout it. I am a bit of a greedy bastard, but I can do without one evening.” A beat, as the smile turned into a full-fledged grin. “Just the one, though.”

“Just the one,” Aziraphale agreed, voice low and soft and amused. “Very well, then. We’ll talk about it later.”

“Mmh,” Crowley wordlessly agreed, distracted by the warning hiss coming from the oil frying into the skillet. He picked the dripping steak from the marinade and carefully laid it down onto the searing-hot casted iron. “What’s your week looking like, angel?”

The excess of moisture prompted at even louder hiss from the pan, as Crowley gently pressed down the steak with a fork. He liked his steaks rare, and while he should’ve probably let it marinate a bit longer, he enjoyed the taste of raw meat well enough.

(He most assuredly didn’t associate anything dirty to that specific turn of phrase. He did have a more refined sense of humour than a twelve-year-old, whatever thoughts Anathema held dear on the matter.)

“I have a middle shift on Thursday, but tomorrow I’m free for lunch, if you’d like,” Aziraphale earnestly replied. “I’ve just found out about this café ten minutes away from work that serves the most delicious cooked breakfasts. And they have a raspberry cheesecake at which I absolutely _must_ have a go.”

Crowley laughed at that, open and unrestrained.

“Sounds like a date, angel,” he chuckled, so busy smiling to himself like an absolute idiot that he almost forgot to turn his steak, and swallowed a huff at the sight of a side a bit too crispy for his taste. “Should I pick you up from home?”

“Oh no, it should be in walking distance from you workplace, too, and it would be such a pity to have you brave the traffic when you could simply take a stroll in the fresh air. I could meet you there around midday.”

“’s not a big deal, angel,” Crowley said, stabbing his steak as it hissed grease at him and landing it on the waiting plate, before turning off the stove. “You know I love driving my Bentley. But that works, too.”

“Wonderful,” Aziraphale cheerfully replied. “Do you have pen and paper, love? I’ll give you the address.”

“How many times will I need to remind you that you could simply text me the address, angel?” Crowley sighed, though he was already loosening his cooking apron (rigorously black and with _Man of Wealth and Taste_ emblazoned in dripping red letter on the front) one-handed and throwing it onto the cooking isle.

“One more, darling, as usual,” Aziraphale quipped, utterly unrepentant. “Are you quite ready?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley scoffed, hopelessly fond, as he walked up to his desk and reached for the small writing pad stylishly gathering dust by the ansaphone. “Give me the address, you relic.”

Aziraphale didn’t really grace that remark with an answer, but if his voice held just a teeny tiny bit of disdain, as he dictated the address, well. He didn’t really need to know about Crowley’s unabashed grin, after all.

* * *

Aziraphale’s faith, for once, seemed to have been misplaced. The unfortunate little café, which had been christened _The Angel’s Lair_ in an obvious display of deliberate cruelty, had seemed all right to Crowley, but it had obviously not satisfied in the slightest Aziraphale’s much more refined taste. It had been choked full, for starters, which was a feature Aziraphale could tolerate only if it didn’t jeopardise their efforts to get the best table, and the slow service did nothing to improve his already frayed temper after being made to wait almost ten minutes to be seated. The food had been unremarkable, the noise frightful, and Crowley had been treated to almost half an hour of desperate attempts on Aziraphale’s part to keep the disdain off his face at least until they were safely out of range of the harried waitresses. Aziraphale dutifully took a slice of raspberry cheesecake to try out later, but, all in all, he was rather unimpressed with the dingy little café and fretting about making Crowley late for work.

“I’m so sorry, my dear. I didn’t think it would take us so long to be served,” he was saying, not for the first time, as they reached the pavement. Crowley shrugged.

“’s ok, nothing new really. With a bit of luck Beelzebub won’t even notice.” A grin, as he brushed the back of Aziraphale’s hand with his own. “’side, ‘s always nice to see you so worked up. All flushed and full of righteous anger.”

“I’m not-I don’t-” Aziraphale sputtered, with hilarious outrage, “I am most definitely _not_ ‘worked up’. I’m just understandably disappointed with a subpar service.”

“Right, that’s why you asked that poor boy at the till for ‘a slice of that raspberry cake, please, and if at all possible not burnt to a crisp’,” Crowley mimicked him, getting an affronted glare for his trouble. “He looked about ready to piss his pants, the wretched lad.”

“I noticed nothing of the sort, dear, and that was merely a customer request,” Aziraphale sniffled, “no need to read anything else into it.”

Crowley snorted at that, loud and unreserved.

“Right, customer request,” he drawled. “Well, I need to get going. No need to press my luck.”

“I’ll walk you back to work,” Aziraphale promptly volunteered, following him as Crowley started down the road. “I have some time before my shift, and it’s such a lovely day.”

The day was anything but lovely in Crowley’s opinion, trashed by a biting wind and with a sky that threatened rain on a moment’s notice, which made Aziraphale’s earnest offer even sweeter. They walked side by side along the busy streets, enjoying each other’s company, Crowley with his hands sunk deep into his pockets and Aziraphale clutching the small box shielding the precious slice of cake to his chest. It felt a bit odd reaching the ugly doors of his office building with Aziraphale in tow, but Crowley decided that he could get used to it.

“I’ll call you tonight, darling,” Aziraphale promised, an impish smirk on his lips. “You’ll need to be brought up to speed about the cake.”

“’course, the cake,” Crowley chuckled, before waving Aziraphale away and making his way down to the basement with a bounce in his step. Anathema was grinning at him like a lunatic as she spotted him sneaking inside like a thief, but he _was_ almost fifteen minutes late, and Beelzebub wasn’t exactly understanding on the subject of sweet lunch dates. The twat had probably never experienced a happy thought in his entire miserable existence, and wouldn’t know one if it kicked him in the arse.

Aziraphale did call him back, later that evening, to inform him that at least the cake was exquisite. It didn’t completely salvage that horrid place, but Aziraphale might be convinced from time to time to pick up a slice to eat in more pleasant venues. Crowley could barely contain his laughter at Aziraphale being his endearingly fussy self, and they carried on chattering, while Crowley watered his plants and waited for the chicken chow mein he’d ordered to get neatly delivered to his door.

Thursday wasted away in a much more sedated crawl, without Anathema around being her usual chatty self. Crowley spent his morning in Battersea, interviewing a zookeeper (soon to be ex, in Crowley’s opinion) who claimed to be able to speak with a particularly harassed-looking emu. According to the man, the emu was a reincarnation of King Henry I, which perhaps explained why he seemed about as happy to be around kids as a roasted chicken with a can of beer up its arse. After enduring the noise of almost thirty children for a lifetime, one would hope to get some silence in the next.

Aziraphale laughed his arse off at Crowley’s colourful retelling of that lovely experience, as they talked over the phone later that evening. Crowley was vaguely aware that they heard from one another every day, sometimes more than once, and although he wasn’t entirely sure that was common practice in a relationship as young as theirs, he liked that. It soothed something buried deep inside his chest, that knowledge that he was in someone’s thoughts in a way that wouldn’t fade away with time or be easily forgotten. He ended up on his couch, curled up against the cushion (smart and stylish and nowhere near as comfortable as Aziraphale’s fluffy throw pillows) as Aziraphale chattered on about panicked students raiding the library grounds before fleeing home for the holidays.

“It’s a bit mad around here right now, but it will be over soon,” Aziraphale said, a sloshing sound and some quiet rustling in the background. Crowley could easily picture him, finally home after a long shift and preparing a well-deserved cup of cocoa. It was almost nine o’clock in the evening, and Crowley himself was comfortably wrapped in his silk nightgown while munching on reheated Chinese leftovers.

The conversation eventually moved onto the party taking place on the following day, and they agreed for Crowley to go straight to Aziraphale’s after work. Crowley offered to drive them both to Chelsea, but Aziraphale was adamant about getting a cab. He would neither risk Crowley driving drunk nor hamper their fun in any way, which Crowley translated as Aziraphale having every intention on following through with his plan of getting them both thoroughly pissed and ending the evening with a drunken shag. A brilliant plan, all in all, in Crowley’s opinion. Surely a plan he had no intention whatsoever of complaining about, as he meekly agreed to leave his Bentley somewhere close to Aziraphale’s flat and leave the other man to take care of the rest. Something shuddered under his skin at Aziraphale’s purred words of approval, and Crowley spent the rest of his evening lazily working at his cock in front of the telly until he spilled into his fist.

Friday came with a surge of anxious anticipation about which Crowley wasn’t entirely sure what to think. He’d been looking forward to see Aziraphale, first and foremost, but also to be out and about with him in a different context than what they were used to. He was also honest enough with himself to admit that he was nervous about meeting Aziraphale’s friends. He doubted that Aziraphale would drop him like a bad habit if Crowley didn’t meet his friends’ expectations, but still. It didn’t hurt to be accepted by Aziraphale’s social group. He didn’t care in the slightest about being accepted by Aziraphale’s wanker family (on the contrary, he wore their distaste as a badge of honour), but he wanted to make a good impression on his friends. Those were people that Aziraphale cared about, and that for a change cared about him, or so Crowley hoped. He wanted them to like him, or at least to tolerate him. As the day came to a close, he found himself absurdly relieved to know that Anathema at least would be there–a familiar face, one that Crowley knew for a fact already liked him. It was a comforting thought.

Traffic seemed to be on his side as he dashed through London, and he was soon springing down the street towards Aziraphale’s building block with his overnight bag bouncing gently against his side. He rang the doorbell and was buzzed inside, but this time Aziraphale wasn’t waiting for him on the threshold; he’d simply left the door ajar, in a clear invitation for Crowley to let himself in. It was a familiar, easy gesture, which left Crowley with a pleasant warmth in his chest as he pushed inside.

“Angel?” he called, as he locked the door behind.

“I won’t be a jiffy, love,” came Aziraphale’s voice, from somewhere in the kitchen. “You get comfortable, I’ll be right up.”

Crowley muttered _jiffy_ under his breath, a fond chuckle threatening to spill over, as he left his travel bag by the door and followed the direction of Aziraphale’s voice. He found him busy unloading a few plastic bags, revealing a couple of delicately ornate boxes and quite a few bottles of wine.

“Oh, there you are,” Aziraphale chirped, beaming at him. “I was just putting a few things away. It wouldn’t do to get to the party on an empty stomach, and the sort of food served in a pub is not much in the way of an improvement. My kitchen is not exactly best suited for a grand supper, but I’ve put together some bread and cheese we could nibble on before we leave, and of course something sweet to tide us over.”

“I see,” Crowley said, an amused smile blooming on his lips. He took a peek over the rim of his dark glasses, drinking in the slight flush blooming on Aziraphale’s cheeks, the brightness of his blue-green eyes. He looked delicious, and in an adorable flutter. “Can I help you?”

“Well, if you insist,” Aziraphale answered, smiling sweetly and thrusting two tall bottles at him. “Could you be a dear and get these into the wine rack? I’ll take care of the dessert, chocolate ganache shouldn’t really get too warm before time.”

“Oh, I don’t think the ganache is in any immediate danger in this freezing flat of yours,” Crowley chuckled, grinning to himself as Aziraphale’s indignant scoffs followed him to the living room. The rack was against the northern wall, between the bedroom door and a corner, and Crowley pondered for a moment which was the right place for the bottles before shrugging and sliding them in the first two available slots he spotted. They looked like the sort of expensive and delicious reds Aziraphale favoured, though Crowley had spied a couple of sparkling withes and a rosé in the kitchen that were indubitably about to be stowed away in his ridiculous long-suffering fridge.

Aziraphale was busy putting together some bread and cheese into a couple of plates when Crowley walked back into the kitchen. He stood for a moment by the doorway, admiring the way Aziraphale’s worn waistcoat stretched across his wide back and his blond curls brushed the starched collar, before stepping closer and pressing their bodies flush together. He felt the gentle give of Aziraphale’s soft flesh as it moulded against his hard chest, and propped his chin onto the slope of Aziraphale’s narrow shoulder. Aziraphale smelt of dusty books and a gentle mixture of faint sweat, aftershave and softener, and Crowley breathed him in, relishing the warmth of that sturdy body against his front even through the layers of clothes.

The touch had surprised Aziraphale some, but he was soon melting into Crowley’s arms, turning his head just enough to nuzzle at Crowley’s cheek as he pressed his palm against Crowley’s hands, clasped over the swell of his belly.

“Well, hello there,” Aziraphale whispered, low and purring, making Crowley chuckle. “Are we feeling in need of a bit of attention, love?”

Crowley swallowed at the obvious intent behind those words, nuzzling into Aziraphale’s temple.

“Maybe.”

Aziraphale hummed, bowing his back against Crowley’s chest just enough to reach behind him with his hand, sinking his fingers into Crowley’s hair. Crowley’s grasp turned even tighter at the touch, as he pressed his nose right behind the delicate shell of Aziraphale’s ear and took a deep breath. Aziraphale sighed softly, then pulled gently at Crowley’s hair until their lips met in a lingering, messy kiss. The sunglasses bumped against Aziraphale’s temple as Crowley pulled away, and Aziraphale slipped them off his face in a frustrated huff, before drawing him into yet another kiss, and another after that.

Crowley was about to sneak a hand a bit lower, when Aziraphale broke off the kiss with a sigh.

“Oh, I wish I had the time to take proper care of you,” Aziraphale huffed, lifting the hand currently holding Crowley’s glasses and running his knuckles against Crowley’s cheek, “but I’m afraid we’ll have to get a wiggle on. I’d like to get a nice shower before we leave, and we really need to nibble on something before we indulge in rather embarrassing amounts of alcohol. Dilly-dallying will make us late.”

“We won’t be,” Crowley purred, straight into Aziraphale’s ear, before licking the stripe of skin right behind the shell he knew to be particularly sensitive. “Doesn’t need to be anything complicated, you know. Just, a bit of snogging, a couple of squeezes here and there. To tide us over before we go.”

Aziraphale made a sound, at that, that was somewhere between a snort and a sigh.

“That’s what the chocolate sponge is for,” he chuckled, but he was giving in, and they both knew it. Crowley grinned against his ear, before nipping at the hard shell, just a little, to keep things interesting.

“I think I’d rather have you instead,” Crowley purred, grinding his hips against the swell of Aziraphale’s arse. He wasn’t hard, not yet, but his cock was definitely taking an interest, trapped as it was down the leg of his tight black jeans. “I’ve never liked sweets all that much. I prefer something that packs a bit of a punch.”

“You were supposed to say that I’m sweeter than any cake,” Aziraphale laughed, carefully setting Crowley’s glasses onto the table before twisting his fingers into Crowley’s short red hair just hard enough to make him groan. “But I think I like that better.”

Crowley gasped, electricity starting to pool into his belly as Aziraphale pushed back against the insistent grind of his hips. He felt hot under his clothes, body lighting up like a battery as his cock gave a sympathetic twitch.

“I’ll say anything you want as long as you keep that up,” he hissed between gritted teeth.

Aziraphale laughed, lolling his head against Crowley’s shoulder to glance up at him with bright eyes. He looked lovely like that, all flushed and happy and painfully close. Crowley held him a bit tighter and kissed him slowly, revelling in the plush push of his lips before pressing in. Aziraphale sighed at the first messy touch of Crowley’s tongue, prying one of Crowley’s hands from the tight clasp over his belly and pushing it down. He was hard in his pressed trousers, and they both gasped into the kiss at the feeling of Crowley’s palm curling around Aziraphale’s burgeoning erection.

“Oh, what a wonderful boy you are,” Aziraphale groaned, pushing into Crowley’s grasp. “So lovely, so sweet. Will you keep touching me, my darling love? Push me over, bring me release?”

“Yes,” Crowley gasped against Aziraphale’s neck, shuddering pitifully against the sturdy expanse of his back. Aziraphale felt lovely in his hand, heavy and thick and hot, even through the layers of his clothes. He squeezed at the hard flesh stiffening in his grasp, and was rewarded with a choked groan, low and shivering. “Anything, angel.”

“My best boy,” Aziraphale crooned, slightly out of breath. “So good to me. Trying so hard.”

That fractured need was coalescing under Crowley’s skin now, a shuddering pressure surging up from his flesh and bones. Crowley felt its pull from his lips to the tips of his toes, like a stuttering engine, igniting tiny sparks of light across his nervous system. He was fully hard now, cock aching something fierce in his too-tight jeans, balls throbbing. He clenched his hole and felt the silvery pleasure of that pull into his perineum, and somewhere else, deep inside.

“You’re torturing yourself with those sinful jeans of yours, love,” Aziraphale murmured, fingers twisting into Crowley’s hair. The lapping ache of that pull sparked a shiver down Crowley’s spine, compounding to the cresting arousal wreaking havoc into his shuddering body. “That’s not good for you. I won’t have you suffer in my own home.”

Before Crowley could parse out what was happening, Aziraphale was batting Crowley’s hand away from his cock, and twisting away from his grasp. Crowley let out a pitiful sound at the loss of warmth and pressure against his front, something meant as a protest and landing a mile off, but before he could make a grab for him Aziraphale was turning around and sliding gracefully onto his knees. Crowley gasped at the touch of gentle hands trailing up his thighs, but Aziraphale merely shushed him, low and tender, as his nimble fingers went to work on the buttons of Crowley’s jeans. The blasted things took their time to pop open one after the other, but eventually there was a loosening in the painful pressure of unforgiving hard fabric against his swollen cock, and Crowley swallowed air in a shuddering gasp full of relief.

“Breathe, darling, and do not worry about a single thing,” Aziraphale purred, hooking his fingers under Crowley’s waistband and carefully pulling it down. “I have you. Relax, sweetheart. Let yourself enjoy this.”

It felt a little like pressure popping, when his throbbing cock finally sprang free. Crowley groaned at the easing of that needling ache, at the sight of his hard, flushed cock bobbing so close to Aziraphale’s wickedly wet lips, at those sticky, violently tender whispers. Aziraphale’s eyes were shining like stars as he lovingly cupped Crowley’s cock into his palm, pumping it a couple of times before bringing it to his mouth. Pleasure exploded inside Crowley’s skull as wet heat engulfed his cockhead, and he floundered, almost tripping onto his lowered jeans and frantically reaching behind his back to look for some purchase. He found it in the shape of the door jamb, and he held onto it for dear life as Aziraphale took his sweet time teasing the swollen cockhead with lips and tongue before slowly but surely engulfing the throbbing shaft into his wet mouth.

Crowley tried his best to keep still, to avoid thrusting into that maddening heat, but it was a lost battle. His body felt hot enough to burn to a cinder, sweat gluing his shirt to his heated skin. His heart was pattering into his chest, pulse throbbing, as Aziraphale pushed his nose into the wispy hairs crowning Crowley’s groin before letting up just enough to swirl his clever tongue around the head and swallow him again. It was a heart-stopping sight, the wet glide of his cock slipping in and out of Aziraphale’s stretched lips, the gentle grasp of manicured fingers around the base, the glimpse of blue-green eyes as Aziraphale glanced up at Crowley’s heated face through lids at half mast and thick lashes. Crowley could barely breath.

The third time Aziraphale did just that, pulling away in a maddeningly slow slide, Crowley’s unruly hips tried to follow, only to be kept still by a firm hand curled around his side. The strength of that grasp tore a shudder out of his skin, and Crowley gripped the door jamb hard enough to hurt, as he gingerly placed his other hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. He got an approving hum for his trouble, and he allowed Aziraphale to keep him onto his feet, just as he was tearing him asunder.

Next thing Crowley knew, there was a pressure between his thighs. He shuddered helplessly at the vague realisation that Aziraphale had let go of the base of his cock to reach between his legs, and struggled to spread them as wide as possible against the resistance offered by the unforgiving fabric of his jeans, bunched up mid-thigh together with his pants and in absolutely no mood to give in. Aziraphale eventually found a way to worm in a finger, delicately rubbing Crowley’s oversensitive perineum as the soft palm curled around the aching swell of his testicles.

Crowley moved his hand from Aziraphale’s shoulder to the back of his neck, holding him fast, as his chin hit his chest and he found himself panting for air in the suddenly searing-hot flat. It was too much, pressure surging in a blinding white-hot wave, spreading from the pit of his belly into his sluggish, shuddering body.

“Angel, ngh, I’m-I’m...” he gasped, trying to warn Aziraphale, but the only thing that gained him was an even tighter pressure, fingers reaching behind his sack to brush his hole. The orgasm swept over him like a wave, washing everything away, and Crowley keened high and trembling as Aziraphale swallowed and swallowed around the thick swell of his cockhead, the squeezing of his throat a maddening pressure just the right side of agonizing. Crowley twitched into a full-body shudder, cock dribbling another painful trickle of come into Aziraphale’s mouth before being gently released. Aziraphale held on to it as he pulled back, looking up at Crowley from lowered lips as he placed a tender kiss on the red head before gently letting it go.

“There, my darling love,” Aziraphale hummed, the roughness in his voice only adding up to Crowley’s madness, “all better now.”

It was too much. Crowley felt all the tension leave his body at once, and collapsed ungracefully onto the ground by Aziraphale. He barely felt it as his bare arse hit the cold woodwork, too busy trying to slow down his thundering heart and panting breaths to bother with that sort of stuff. He was still reeling with the tail of his orgasm as he reached out, grasping hands straining towards Aziraphale.

“Come here, angel, come here, please, let me,” he gasped, a different sort of need burning into his chest now that his body had been appeased. “Please, angel.”

Aziraphale studied his face for a moment, before dipping his head in a small nod.

“All right,” he murmured, shuffling between Crowley’s spread legs. There wasn’t much space in there, with the painful way Crowley’s jeans were digging into his thighs, but Aziraphale filled it perfectly, soft body fenced in by Crowley’s bony knees. He looked... well. He looked _well used_, tragically beautiful with his flushed cheeks and swollen lips and bright eyes. He caught Crowley’s flailing hands and brought them to his lips, kissing them tenderly. “Slowly, love. Let us have something gentle, something sweet, now.”

Crowley wanted to protest that everything they had was sweet, but Aziraphale was reaching down, opening up his own trousers and freeing his cock. Even dipped in shadows it looked mouth-watering good, thick and hard and absolutely perfect for his hand, but Crowley held back, waiting for Aziraphale’s cue.

“Such a good boy, so obedient, trying so hard to please me,” Aziraphale whispered, cradling one of Crowley’s hands in his own and peppering tender kisses all over the bony knuckles, the vulnerable palm. “I love you so, my dearest. I’m so proud of you.”

Crowley let out something that could only be classified as a whimper, as Aziraphale slowly guided Crowley’s hand between his own thighs. He shuffled a little closer, close enough for his breath to lap gently at Crowley’s face, and then Crowley was touching his cock.

It felt just as wonderful as it looked. Crowley let out a pleased, shuddering gasp as his fingers closed around the thick shaft, feeling the barely-there give of the foreskin as he pulled experimentally at it. Aziraphale sighed against his lips, then kissed him, briefly and delicately, while Crowley’s hand languidly pumped his straining cock.

“Like that?” Crowley whispered, between quiet, feather-like kisses.

“Yes, sweetheart,” Aziraphale answered, undoing Crowley’s tie and the first buttons of his burgundy shirt to reach the skin, tenderly caressing his sweaty neck. He was so close that Crowley could feel the wispy touch of those blond curls against his cheek. “Slowly. Aren’t you just lovely? Your hands can be so delicate. I love your touch so very much, dearest.”

Crowley swallowed hard, a thick wave of feeling threatening to drown him. He nosed at Aziraphale’s cheek, hand twisting in the upstroke the way he knew Aziraphale liked best. He pressed his other hand against Aziraphale’s chest, searching for the thrumming of his heart.

“So sweet, so lovely.” Crowley could barely hear him, words muffled by the lingering kisses Aziraphale was peppering all over his cheeks, his lips, his chin. “My darling Crowley.”

Crowley closed his eyes, letting himself be swept under by the endearments tumbling freely from Aziraphale’s lips. He curled a hand against the back of Aziraphale’s neck he neared his peak, holding him close, and sped up his strokes obligingly when asked in broken whispers. Then Aziraphale was spilling between them with a sigh, a deep, trembling sound, and Crowley held him through the aftershocks with painful tenderness.

They stayed there for a long time, after, just holding onto each other, listening to the sound of their mingled breaths. There was such a thick peace to that moment that Crowley almost feared he could choke on it, sticky and devastatingly beautiful. He cradled Aziraphale to his chest and felt a little like his heart was shattering in his chest, a happiness so intense it was almost sadness.

Then Aziraphale stirred into his arms, and the moment was gone. His eyes were bright and spilling with something so strong it was almost unbearable as he looked up at him, cradling Crowley’s face in his palms and pressing a tender kiss to his lips.

“There,” he whispered, smiling against his lips. “Is that what you wanted, love?”

Crowley almost reached back, before remembering that his hand was tacky with come. He rubbed it clean against his jeans before cupping Aziraphale’s cheeks, returning the kiss with trembling lips. His arse was starting to ache from the hard floor, and he felt sticky and rather uncomfortable in his tight half-made clothes, but there was a sticky happiness swelling in his chest, something tragically beautiful.

“Yes.”

“Good,” Aziraphale whispered back, before pulling away with a raised brow and a quick look at the clock hanging onto the wall, “because we have just about an hour to clean up, get ready and call a cab. We _are_ going to be late, you know.”

Crowley scoffed, struggling to get back on his feet.

“Don’t be such a pessimist, angel. We won’t.”

They were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Onza is a cryptid from the Mexican folklore, and yes, Crowley’s apron is custom-made with a line from _Sympathy for the Devil_. He’s a walking cliché.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there, lovely people!  
We’re quickly approaching 300k, which is… way longer than I thought this story was going to be (as in 3 times longer at the very least). Thankfully enough we are getting on with the plot more or less as planned, so I can say with (some sort of) confidence that the end is finally in sight. I hope you’ll stick with me and our boys until then <3  
As always, my endless gratitude and love to [uponwhatgrounds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uponwhatgrounds/pseuds/uponwhatgrounds) for two more stunning [pieces of (spicy) art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25128289?view_full_work=true). You are a gift. Thank you so very much, again and again and again, for your unbelievable kindness.  
That’s it, folks. I hope you’ll enjoy the chapter <3 And comments are as always the fuel that powers my engines, so please know that every single one of them is incredibly appreciated!

London’s busy streets looked impossibly bright so close to Christmas. Crowley had never been particularly taken with the holiday (and hated those insufferable soppy carols with inextinguishable passion), but he could admit to a certain appreciation for the way the city seemed to light up against the backdrop of the darkest month of the year. There was a manic sort of energy thrumming through the choked arteries of the metropolis, like an unfocused but desperate need to be somewhere and do something, which Crowley could feel under the soles of his feet like a vibration buried deep into the ground. It was soothing, in a way. It didn’t last very long, but there was a subtle comfort in the knowledge that for a while everyone felt just as directionless and lost as he did, mulling about that busy city looking for something that wasn’t really there. It made him feel less alone.

But Crowley wasn’t alone, not anymore. He spread his legs a bit wider, just enough to bump his knee against Aziraphale’s. The gesture prompted a vaguely harried glance, as Aziraphale pulled his stopwatch out of his pocket for the tenth time in less than five minutes.

“Looking at the time won’t make it go slower, you know,” Crowley pointed out, trying and failing to hide how amusing he found the entire business. Aziraphale, who loathed deadlines and couldn’t be bothered to do anything at a specific time unless absolutely necessary, obviously drew the line at people being made to wait for him, and had been fretting ever since they got into the blasted cab.

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale bit back, “I told you we’d be late.”

Crowley could see the peeved way those pale eyes flashed at him even through the dark glasses, but it was difficult to be anything short of amused in front of a thoroughly miffed Aziraphale.

“I wasn’t the one who insisted on nibbling on something before we left,” he pointed out, not even bothering to disguise his smirk as Aziraphale swallowed with obvious difficulty the prompt reply that had almost come unbidden to his lips, and that surely involved something along the lines of ‘yes, well, you were the one who insisted on other much more time-consuming activities, _dear_’. They were in the back of a taxi, after all, and the poor cabbie was within hearing. Such allusions would’ve been _unseemly_.

“You will thank me tomorrow morning,” Aziraphale said instead, in a prissy, precise voice, “when you’ll feel just mildly hungover instead of one step away from dying of alcohol poisoning in my flat.”

“Oh, I’d never do something as crass as dying in your flat, angel,” Crowley snickered, stretching an arm behind Aziraphale’s shoulders in his stealthiest manoeuvre. The glare he got for his trouble suggested that a revaluation of such technique might be in order, but Aziraphale didn’t move away, which Crowley took as good a permission as any to stroke the back of Aziraphale’s head with his fingertips.

“You’d better,” Aziraphale scoffed, softening a little around the edges as he offered Crowley a sharp little smile, “because I don’t think I could forgive you that. I’m a bit too old to learn how to bury bodies.”

Crowley lazily twirled a curl around his finger.

“Duly noted.”

Aziraphale pressed his thigh against Crowley’s, a subtle gesture but loaded with meaning, and Crowley relaxed against the backrest as he knew that he’d been forgiven. The texture of those blond curls felt unfairly alluring against his bare skin, and Crowley almost forgot where they were for a moment, barely stopping himself from sinking his face into Aziraphale’s soft hair. He wriggled against the backrest instead, letting out a quiet huff as he dipped his little finger underneath Aziraphale’s thick scarf, grazing the warm skin of his neck. They were sitting so close that Crowley could smell the apricot fragrance of Aziraphale’s shampoo even under the sharper sandalwood scent of his aftershave.

They were fifteen minutes late, by the time the cab left them by the smoky glass doors of a pub unimaginatively named _The King’s Arms_ (which prompted the question of where exactly the rest of him had gone). That wasn’t nearly enough to be considered _fashionably late_ in Crowley’s book, even less _unacceptably late_, but he’d given up by now on trying to explain how unforgivably tasteless modern society considered showing up to a party in time. He scoffed loudly at the pointed glower he was gifted with as Aziraphale pocketed his stopwatch for hopefully the last time and led him inside.

The pub was packed, and surprisingly loud. It wasn’t at all the sort of place Crowley would imagine Aziraphale willingly spending his free time, but perhaps he made a concession for Christmas. Or his friends. Crowley tried valiantly not to feel jealous at the thought, but his efforts didn’t yield particularly good results.

Aziraphale picked his way carefully through the messy tables and the packs of people scuttling through the floor carrying glasses filled to the brim, Crowley just one step behind. He seemed to know where he was going, and soon enough Crowley spotted a long table choked full with laughing people, each with a drink in hand and chattering loudly with their neighbour. A cheer soared like a gust of wind, as they caught sight of Aziraphale.

“Hey, Aziraphale, there you are!”

“Nice of you to show up!”

“We were starting to think you weren’t coming!”

Aziraphale wasted a second to throw Crowley a meaningful glare from the corner of his eye before approaching the table with a friendly smile.

“Hello, everyone,” he said, pulling back a free chair. “I’m so sorry we are late. This is Crowley. Crowley, meet the very best the London Metropolitan University has to offer.”

Crowley was too taken aback by the sight of a good dozen of people honestly convinced that being on time for a party was the right thing to do to realise that the chair was meant for him, as he replied to the booming welcome with an awkward wave of his hand. He wasn’t too sure how he felt at the very obvious fact that everyone at the table knew who he was and what he was to Aziraphale. A bit shy, perhaps, which he absolutely loathed. A bit smug. And a whole lot elated and warmed to the bone.

He blinked at Aziraphale, wide-eyed and confused, as he felt a gentle touch on the small of his back. There was a little smile on those soft lips, barely a quirk, but as blinding bright as sunshine to Crowley.

“Here, love,” Aziraphale murmured, low and obviously amused. “Take a seat. I’ll get us something to drink.”

Crowley sat automatically on the chair Aziraphale had pulled up for him, realising in a split of a second that the bastard meant to leave him alone with his pack of leering friends who were watching Crowley as if he were a steak. Including Anathema, who was sitting by the lanky young man Crowley had seen at the library and was staring at their interaction with an unsettling grin plastered all over her face.

The brush of a hand against his nape reeled Crowley’s attention in like a hook. He looked up at Aziraphale, lost for a moment in the way the smoky lights of the pub lit up his golden hair. Aziraphale had draped his scarf on the back of his own chair, and was now busy taking off his deerskin gloves and slipping them into the pockets of his woollen coat.

“What can I get you, dear?”

“Single malt, please, neat,” Crowley answered, after a moment deliberation. “If not, a dark lager.”

“I’ll do my very best,” Aziraphale shot back, a proper smirk taking place of the little sharp smile. Then he draped his neatly folded coat over his scarf and walked away, leaving Crowley alone to be stared at by an unsettling amount of overly interested eyes.

“Hello, Crowley, so nice of you two to join us,” Anathema predictably piped up first, grinning like a lunatic. She had a hand on the lanky kid’s arm, and was nursing her beer with the other.

“Anathema,” Crowley offered, with a little dip of his chin. The pub was definitely too warm for his thick coat, and Crowley took some time to get rid of it and balance it together with his scarf rather precariously over the back of his chair. He truly hoped he wasn’t going to get anything sticky (ah!) all over his clothes through the evening, because that was the last set he’d packed for the weekend. He hadn’t exactly planned on changing before going out, but after their little tumble on the floor of Aziraphale’s kitchen, a shower and clean clothes had been in order. Not that he regretted the accident in any possible way. Aside from the tumble itself, which had been nothing short of glorious, he knew exactly how the dark purple shirt and the black waistcoat looked on him. And Aziraphale hadn’t been exactly subtle in his appreciation either, which of course had made Crowley preen like the silly peacock that he was.

He sprawled his long limbs a bit more comfortably onto the hard wooden chair, hooking his arm over the backrest and spreading around his most effective wanker vibes. That was his favourite way to deal with difficult social interactions for a reason, after all.

“This is Newton,” Anathema carried on, utterly ignoring Crowley’s posturing. She’d got used to it plenty in the year (and some) they had known each other, after all. “Newton, Crowley.”

The kid, Newton, muttered something unintelligible in reply, possibly too busy trying not to stare directly at Crowley’s face to put together anything more coherent. Crowley flashed his best tosser grin and gave a half-arsed attempt at waving a hand at the poor man.

“So, how are you holding up at the office without me?” Anathema grinned, pushing back a loose dark curl. She was wearing a thick grey blouse with long fringed sleeves, absolutely abysmal from any point of view, and yet she managed to make it work somehow. The blasted thing had a frilled collar, for God’s sake, and the huge golden hoop earrings hanging from her lobes looked one second away from getting tangled into it and turning the evening into a quite literal bloody mess.

“Barely surviving, of course.”

“I have no doubt,” Anathema scoffed, barely trying to hide her obvious delight at Crowley’s words. “No one to gossip with, in that miserable godforsaken place. I wonder sometimes how you managed to stay there for so long.”

Crowley felt his grin totter on the brink of slipping, so he forced it back onto his face, where it belonged.

“Oh, Beelzebub’s pissy face is always a gift. Couldn’t live without it, really.”

“Anathema told us that you are a journalist, dear,” the old lady from the library (Tracy, wasn’t it?) piped up. She was sitting a bit farther down the table, on Crowley’s left, with that grubby gatekeeper by her side. “That’s a jolly good trade, I think. Very interesting, I’m sure.”

Crowley shrugged, as a rather interesting fellow with an obsession for chalk giants popped up into his mind.

“It has its moment.”

“Do you have any nice story to tell us?”

Crowley took a moment to deliberate, before deciding to go for the weeping Mary business he had covered a while before. The whole table was laughing, by the time Aziraphale came back with their drinks.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, handing Crowley his scotch and sitting down by his side.

Crowley shrugged.

“Told them about the weeping Mary thing.”

“Oh, yes, that one,” Aziraphale chuckled. He’d ordered for himself a large glass of red, which Crowley eyed with a raised brow. He didn’t think Aziraphale’s refined taste would particularly appreciate the sort of cheap wine pubs usually served, and he wasn’t disappointed, as Aziraphale made a pained face at the very first sip. His grimace was quickly wiped away by a long-suffering huff, as he took in Crowley’s smug grin and read it for the gentle dig that it was.

“We were actually starting to get worried about you, Aziraphale,” Tracy declared, a little pout on her heavily made-up lips. She looked as colourful and conspicuous as the first time Crowley had seen her, impossible to overlook. She was also drinking some spirit, colourless and neat, which made for a rather favourable impression. “You are _never_ late.”

Aziraphale hummed under his breath, carefully avoiding looking at Crowley. Well, wasn’t _that_ interesting. It probably meant that the old lady could read between the lines just fine, and Aziraphale wasn’t particularly keen on letting her on what they’d been up to.

“I’m truly sorry about that. We got held up somewhat.”

“I’m sure you were,” Tracy chirped, something just a bit wicked in her eyes as she stared at Aziraphale with the most innocent face Crowley had ever seen. That was apparently enough to turn up a notch Aziraphale’s haughty unperturbed smile.

“Traffic in central London, you see. Absolutely frightful.”

“Oh, yes. A true nightmare.”

That obvious ribbing was cut short by a scornful snort coming from the man sitting by Tracy’s side. The gatekeeper looked as scruffy as Crowley had seen him before, and just about as friendly as he levelled a nasty glare at him, before gulping down his beer as though it had personally offended him somehow by still being in its glass instead of down his throat.

The obligatory round of questions to Aziraphale’s new partner seemed to last forever, but in truth it didn’t take longer than ten minutes. Crowley was a little taken aback by how loud and boisterous Aziraphale’s friends were turning out to be, especially since it clashed dramatically with the idea he held so dear of librarians as the quiet and mousy sort, but then again he knew first hand which kind of mischief Aziraphale could get up to at the slightest provocation. Librarians couldn’t very obviously be trusted to honour their well-worn stereotypes, so Crowley would really do well to keep that in mind.

All in all, they seemed a nice enough lot. Aside from the grumpy gatekeeper, who appeared to be the sort of fellow who didn’t liked anyone at all, they all seemed pretty fond of Aziraphale, which was everything Crowley could ever ask of them. And Aziraphale looked positively glowing under the attention, bright and lively and wonderfully happy as he made faces at his wine and chattered animatedly with a blinding smile on his lips and much more gesticulating that the subject of allowing students to handle rare books really required. Crowley was still a bit jealous, because how could he not, really, but he couldn’t avoid being hopelessly charmed by Aziraphale looking so at ease and generally enjoying himself with his friends.

He realised he was staring at Aziraphale with an undoubtedly silly smile on his face the moment he saw Anathema’s self-satisfied smirk linger on him, and covered up his blunder by sipping the rest of his scotch as though nothing had happened.

That, obviously, brought to the forefront of his mind that his glass was now empty, and he had a perfect excuse to flee the table before Anathema could say something utterly mortifying. He grabbed his empty glass and looked over at Aziraphale, who also seemed to be a bit short on wine. He also looked completely absorbed by whatever he was talking about with his neighbour, but it merely took Crowley a feather-like touch on the crook of Aziraphale’s elbow to redirect the entire weight of his attention to his partner.

“Darling? Are you all right?” Aziraphale asked, looking somewhat sheepish as he covered Crowley’s hand with his own. “I’m sorry, love. You must be bored to death.”

“Nah, angel, ‘m good,” Crowley chuckled, refusing to admit to the flicker of warmth the soft concern had sparked into his chest. “’m getting myself another scotch. Can I get you anything, angel? More wine?”

Aziraphale’s face fell a little at the mention of the wine, and he looked ridiculously (and endearingly) forlorn as he glanced at his empty glass.

“That hardly qualifies as wine, my dear, but fine. I guess I could drink another glass.”

He sounded so doubtful that Crowley had to laugh.

“You said you come here every year. Haven’t you figured out yet what’s good to drink?”

“It’s a _pub_, my dear,” Aziraphale haughtily scoffed, “the only good thing they have is beer. And I’m not that desperate, as of yet.”

“What about scotch? ‘s not exactly gourmet quality but it’s pretty decent.”

“I... scotch, darling?” Aziraphale murmured, as though Crowley’s offer had been nothing short of indecent. “That might be a bit too strong for me.”

“I thought you wanted to get extraordinarily pissed tonight, angel,” Crowley purred, dipping his head just a little closer to try and hide his next words from Anathema’s overly keen ears. “I thought you wanted to go home and have a nice drunken tumble.”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale replied, glancing up at him with bright eyes and pink-stained cheeks. His lips looked soft and wet from licking them and Crowley was really too close, especially with the way Aziraphale was zeroing his gaze onto Crowley’s mouth. “I did say that, didn’t I?”

Crowley swallowed, a shiver slithering down his back.

_Right. Drinks. Now._

“’m going to get the... thing,” he stuttered, staggering to his feet.

Aziraphale merely blinked up at him, looking a bit like a deer in the headlights for a moment.

“Yes, of course,” he said, a bit dazedly, “you do that.”

That seemed pretty much the best they could manage, and Crowley decided that it really was the case of cutting his losses and leaving while he was still on top. He scuttled away as though his heels were on fire, refusing to look at anyone at the table until he’d managed to get a handle on both himself and his traitorous cock, which should really _not_ twitch that way in his painfully tight jeans if it knew at all what was good for it.

Crowley came back with two tumblers of single malt, neat, because only barbarians drank anything that wasn’t a blend on the rocks, and gently set Aziraphale’s glass in front of him before taking his seat.

“Here, angel. Your scotch.”

“Oh, thank you, darling.” A sip, as Aziraphale’s face took a rather absorbed expression. “Not exactly my cup of tea, but it is rather good. Very smooth.”

“Told you, angel,” Crowley said with a smirk, taking a sip himself. He was so busy being smug about suggesting Aziraphale something he actually liked that he missed entirely the danger, sweeping over him in the shape of a colourfully dressed middle-aged librarian with a hearing that had no business being that sharp outside of a cave full of bats.

“You have proper pet names for each other, how sweet!” Tracy cooed, cupping her cheeks into her palms in a gesture that was oddly devoid of any irony whatsoever.

Crowley almost choked on his scotch at that. Oh, the dear old lady really had _no idea_.

Aziraphale, however, who could and would deploy an impressive range of poker faces if the occasion called for it, merely bestowed upon her a sunny smile that was just a bit too sharp around the edges to be truly convincing.

“Of course, you know me,” he purred, all guileless blue eyes and pink cheeks. “I’m a silly old romantic. I didn’t really think my darling Crowley would be the type, but then he reassured me that he, how did you put it, dear boy?, ‘could work with pet names’. I must say I’ve grown rather attached to mine.”

It took Crowley a moment to place the reference, but then he was laughing, openly laughing, with his head tilted back as he remembered a conversation they’d had so long before it felt almost another life entirely. Oh, the sneaky bastard.

“I can’t believe you still remember that,” Crowley chuckled, only to be met by a mischievous smirk.

“Well, I’m not really likely to forget one of our dates now darling, am I?”

That hadn’t been exactly a date, but it warmed something deep in Crowley’s bones to think that perhaps, in a way, they had been dating from the very beginning.

“Oh, I know. I’m way too unforgettable for that.”

“Yes, your modesty has really made an impression very early on, dear.”

Crowley couldn’t help but laugh again at that, and even as Aziraphale shifted his focus on other people and seamlessly redirected the conversation towards another topic, that smug little smile peeking at the corner of his lips never really went away.

* * *

Anathema was the first to go home, well into the evening. Newton had to work the day after, and he was already dozing over his beer (the only one Crowley had seen him drinking, and still half full). Anathema plucked Newton’s coat from the back of his chair and helped him into it, a caring gesture that took Crowley a bit by surprise, but she seemed so businesslike and matter-of-fact about it that Crowley realised a bit begrudgingly he wasn’t really sure he could tease her for it. Then she buttoned up her own coat and went for a round of hugs, which left Aziraphale and Crowley for last. She smelt like jasmine and something else, a bit spicy and a bit smokey, like incense, as she wound her arms around Crowley’s neck.

“You are so screwed,” she whispered into his ear, obviously convinced she was being very sneaky. “I thought Tracy was laying it on a bit thick, but it’s actually much worse than I expected.”

“Thanks,” Crowley deadpanned, but Anathema refused to let go when he tried to pull away.

“I mean, I knew you had it bad, but I didn’t think it would be _that_ bad. You just wait until I’m back, I’m going to tease you about your little crush without mercy.”

“I can hardly wait.”

“Hey,” Anathema said, holding him a bit tighter for a moment, as though she was trying to tell him something through touch alone. “It’s sweet. You could do with something sweet in your life. I’m happy for you.”

Crowley was a little taken aback. Anathema was clever and nosy and a bit snippy but she was rarely affectionate. He pressed his cheek against hers, hugging her back.

“Thank you,” he said, more sincerely than he liked. “I’m happy, too.”

“I’m sure you are,” Anathema said, pulling back just enough to look at Crowley in the eye, without relinquishing the grip on his neck. “Aziraphale is the sweetest man I know.”

Crowley saw Aziraphale dip his head at that, pink cheeks turning even pinker.

“Yes, he is.” He’d said it purposely loud enough to be heard, and Aziraphale smiled softly at him. “He’s also a bit of a bastard when he cares to, but let’s keep that to ourselves, shall we?”

Aziraphale scoffed mock-piqued in reply, as Anathema pulled away with a giggle. She’d had more than her fair share of lager, and she looked a bit pissed, with bright eyes and tanned cheeks stained with red.

“Oh, yes,” she chuckled, stage-whispering. “He doesn’t like people to know, but he really is.”

“Yes, well, if the two of you are quite done ganging up on me,” Aziraphale cut in, far too amused to look properly miffed. “You’d better get a wiggle on. Poor Newton is about to fall over.”

“Yes, of course,” Anathema chuckled, throwing her arms around Aziraphale’s neck to give him a proper hug as well. “And you. I’m so proud of you. It’s not easy to give relationships another chance, after you’ve been burnt by a bad one. I’m glad you decided to try again.”

Aziraphale looked vaguely uncomfortable, and Crowley was suddenly brought back to a rather awful afternoon of silly woe, after Anathema had told him that Aziraphale’s last relationship had ended in heartbreak. Well, that wasn’t exactly _wrong_, per se, though not precisely the way Anathema had taken for granted. Interesting.

“Thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale awkwardly answered, pulling back from the tight hug. “Mind as you go, now.”

Anathema’s smile was soft as he let him go, reaching for her boyfriend’s hand and waving at them.

“Have a good night!” she called, towing Newton away.

“You too!” Aziraphale called back, before being distracted by a sweet old couple that was just about to leave and wanted to say their goodbyes.

People seemed to come and go in a trickle, after that. The young girl from the Special Collections department left straight after, followed by a couple of middle-aged men, and were promptly replaced by a lively group of three ladies in their sixties coming straight from the library after their late shift and all too eager to get to know ‘Aziraphale’s young man’ properly, despite Crowley being anything but young anymore. He had to introduce himself at least four more times as the evening slowly slipped into the night, and by the end of it he was starting to get rather bored to repeat the same things over and over. But Aziraphale seemed to smile a bit more brightly ever time his partner was dragged into the conversation, as though nothing delighted him more than talking about Crowley, and Crowley was way too flattered by that to stay annoyed for long. He couldn’t stop preening under Aziraphale’s attention, and the more the night wore on, the looser Aziraphale turned, cheeks flushed and lips wet with scotch as he downed one glass after another. He’d placed his hand on Crowley’s thigh at some point, and just forgot it there, a spot of heat that Crowley could feel all the way up to the tip of his nose. As they neared midnight, he was starting to get a bit antsy, and very, very keen on going back home and having the promised fooling around.

Everyone was rather dramatically sloshed by then, and Crowley himself felt rather nice and warm and much mellower than his usual jittery self. Tracy kept pointing Crowley to the three ladies in heavy make-up and catty smiles like a broken record, flattering him in such obvious ways that Crowley had no issue whatsoever to identify the small group as the ‘evil witches from the Rare Books department’ she had mentioned during his brief visit to the library. The whole thing seemed a bit silly to him, but Crowley was never one to shy away from free praise, and the way Aziraphale tried and failed with rather hilarious results to look anything but obnoxiously smug about being there with him was too appealing for Crowley to resist. He kept preening and smiling and trying his best to be as cool as a human being could possibly be without breaking something, and was rewarded by Aziraphale pressing their legs together and throwing him increasingly heated glances from the corner of his eye. The grip on his thigh also failed to disappear, and Crowley nearly shot out of his chair as Aziraphale’s wicked fingers brushed the inseam of his jeans.

All right. It was time to go.

“C’mon angel, say your goodnights,” Crowley encouraged him, prying Aziraphale’s blistering-hot hand away from his leg and trying to act as though he was simply slipping into his coat, instead of using the long lapels to cover the thickening of his cock down the length of his thigh–luckily (or unluckily, depending on the way one looked at things) the one beyond the grasp of Aziraphale’s clever fingers. “We’d better get going.”

Aziraphale pouted a little in reply, but then his gaze tracked the length of Crowley’s neck, lingering on his loosened black tie and the first buttons of his purple shirt, which had been undone a bit earlier in the evening, and his eyes darkened. He licked his lips, maddeningly slowly, as he glanced up at Crowley’s face.

“Yes, dear. We really should.”

Crowley could only thank all the gods in heaven that Anathema was already gone, though he had no doubt that Tracy would bring her up to speed as soon as the two busybodies were alone in the same room long enough to throw gossips around like a couple of tornadoes.

“Alright then,” Crowley sighed, staggering to his feet and gently pulling Aziraphale along. The man was obviously pissed, but less drunk than Crowley had thought at first. He was steady on his feet, despite the pink cheeks and the slightly slurred speech, and his eyes were still sharp, even if a bit dreamier than usual. He huffed and puffed as Crowley helped him into his coat, and insisted for getting his scarf by himself and wrapping Crowley’s around his neck.

“Here, all nice and warm now,” he purred, grazing the line of Crowley’s jaw with the back of his index in a way that he surely considered inconspicuous. Crowley ignored the cooing coming from Tracy and waited for Aziraphale to be done with his goodbyes, before towing him towards the exit. People were steadily trickling out of the pub, since drinks had stopped being served about half an hour before, but most of the patrons would stay until the owner physically kicked them out. Crowley navigated with some difficulties the staff flitting about in their single-minded mission to clean up the floor (a subtle encouragement for people to fuck off if there had ever been one), and finally they were out in the fresh air, chilly but welcome after the stifling, stinking pub.

Without much thinking, Crowley pressed a hand against Aziraphale’s back, between his shoulder blades, and tried to draw the attention of a cabbie. It was an instinctive attempt at keeping Aziraphale close, but he shouldn’t have bothered, from the way the other man practically melted into his side.

“Thank you for coming, darling,” Aziraphale murmured, almost too low for Crowley to hear. “I had a lovely time.”

That was enough to distract Crowley momentarily from his quest to find a cab. He looked at Aziraphale, taking in the shine of his eyes, bright in the soft lights of the streetlamps even through the dark lenses of Crowley’s glasses.

“Thank you for having me, angel. It was good fun.” A beat, as Crowley gently brushed Aziraphale’s back in a subtle caress. “I like your friends. They’re nice.”

“They’re nosy and frightfully impolite,” Aziraphale chuckled, “especially after a couple of beers, but they mean well. I’m glad you like them.”

Crowley squeezed his shoulder in reply, holding him just a bit closer, and then tried again to get a bloody cabbie to slow down by the pavement.

* * *

It took Crowley almost half an hour of frantic waving to get a taxi. He was a good deal soberer by then, and even Aziraphale looked more composed than Crowley had seen him in the past few hours. That didn’t stop him from pressing way too close to Crowley’s body as they settled into the back, nor his hand (bare, since he’d left his deerskin gloves into the pockets of his coat) from finding Crowley’s knobby knee.

“I think you owe me something, darling,” he whispered into Crowley’s ear, after they had given the cabbie the address and he’d dutifully pulled into traffic. Crowley had barely got a glimpse of him, but he looked the best sort of cabbie a couple of drunken fools could wish for–the utterly indifferent kind.

“I do?” Crowley whispered back, tilting his head just enough to feel the warmth of Aziraphale’s breath grazing his skin. He was tantalisingly close, warm and firm and lovely, pressed so tight against Crowley’s body that Crowley could feel the softness of him even through his clothes. The hand onto his knee slipped a bit upwards, scalding Crowley’s skin like a brand.

“Hm. I remember you promising something to me,” Aziraphale murmured, as his fingers reached for the inseam of Crowley’s jeans. It was barely above the knee, nothing scandalous really, but Crowley felt the touch swirl into his blood into a maddening rush. “Do you have something to tell me, darling?”

Crowley swallowed around a lump in his throat, as understanding clicked into place like the missing piece from a puzzle. His trapped cock was on Aziraphale’s side, this time, and the man was slowly inching his hand upwards as he sat so close to Crowley that his curls tickled the sharp ridge of Crowley’s cheekbone.

“I... yes, I guess I do,” he pushed out, voice as rough as sandpaper even down to a whisper. “Well, I mean... now?”

“Why not?” Aziraphale purred back, nose brushing the underside of Crowley’s jaw as he pushed impossibly near. “We won’t be home for another fifteen minutes at least. Friday night traffic. You know how it is.”

Crowley surely knew how it was, but he was more than a little taken aback by the discovery that _Aziraphale_ was aware of something as trivial as Friday night traffic, especially since he couldn’t drive a car to save his life. Apparently, the prospect of winding Crowley up like a toy was enough to make the man an expert in virtually every possible field.

“We are in a taxi,” Crowley whispered back, a bit offended by life putting him in the position of being the responsible adult there.

Aziraphale merely chuckled.

“And the driver is listening to Vivaldi, one of the seasons I think. How lovely, don’t you think?”

“Are you actually suggesting we get it on in the back of a cab, angel?” Crowley whispered, oddly horrified by the prospect, as though he hadn’t got up to much worse in his heydays. But Aziraphale was so carefully proper in any circumstance that every time he suggested something even just a bit titillating it sounded way lewder than it had any right to be, and Crowley’s cock replied accordingly–as in, with the utmost enthusiasm.

Aziraphale, much to Crowley’s relief and disappointment, scoffed at that.

“Don’t be crass, my dear. Of course not.” A beat, as his fingers danced on the inseam of Crowley’s jeans, making him shiver. “We are just having a simple conversation. Aren’t we, sweetheart?”

Crowley chuckled in reply, because really, how could he _not_. But what came actually out of his mouth was a winded, choked sort of sound, more like a gasp than anything else at all.

“You are a holy terror, angel, just so you know.”

“Hm. Well. Are you going to dawdle for much longer? We are getting close to home, and I’d rather have this conversation done with before we get there.”

Crowley let out something between a laugh and a sigh, as he curled an arm around Aziraphale’s sloped shoulders. He let his elbow rest on the backrest and his hand loll over the ridge of Aziraphale’s collarbone, distractedly fingering the soft wool of his tartan scarf as he pressed his nose against Aziraphale’s temple. Aziraphale’s thick blond curls tickled his forehead, his close lids, and Crowley inhaled deeply, searching for the scent of his skin under the aftershave and the smokey smell of the pub and breathing him in.

“This morning, in the shower...” he began, voice impossibly low and whispered directly into Aziraphale’s lovely ear. Crowley could feel the drumming of his heart as he went on and on, describing every little naughty thing he’d done to his body, the way he’d fingered himself lazily on Wednesday evening as he pulled at his cock, his favourite memories playing in his head over and over and over like a broken record, well-loved and worn by use, as he came with a shiver and the subtle knowledge that he was not nearly done with that little spot of hedonism. He’d known as he came, every single time, that he’d have to tell Aziraphale about it, whisper how and when he’d brought himself to orgasm, and the thought had wound him up just a little tighter, making his release just a little sweeter.

Crowley was high on need and arousal, body electrified like a magnet and painfully hard, by the time the cabbie parked in front of Aziraphale’s building. He was so out of it that it took him a moment to realise they were there, and when he pulled away from the shelter of Aziraphale’s cheek to look fully at his face he wasn’t particularly surprised to find a placid smile upon his lips, as he paid the driver with the composure of a diplomat in the Climate Change Summit of the United Nations. Then his gaze moved onto Crowley, and his smile softened impossibly as he took him in.

“Are you all right, love?” Aziraphale murmured, a shiver in his voice betraying how keyed up he actually was, eyes so bright they looked nearly feverish.

Crowley nodded, and Aziraphale gently extricated himself from his grip with a parting caress across Crowley’s cheek.

“Come, darling, let’s go home.”

Crowley felt a bit too light-headed to think about anything at all, but his body followed Aziraphale on autopilot, squeezing his long limbs out of the cab and standing on unsteady legs as Aziraphale closed the door behind him. Crowley barely heard the taxi drive away, too focused on the tender touch of Aziraphale’s hand cradling his own to care about anything else that wasn’t the overwhelming physical presence of the other man.

“Come, love, we’re almost there,” Aziraphale crooned, voice low and charged like a battery, pulling him forwards. Crowley stumbled after him into the building and up an endless number of stairs, until the door of Aziraphale’s flat was shut behind his back. Then Aziraphale was on him, cradling Crowley’s face between his palms and pressing feverish kisses upon his lips.

“You have no idea, _no idea_,” Aziraphale gasped between one kiss and the next, pulling him forward. “I wanted to touch you, fuck you, _devour_ you, ever since we walked into that pub. I _hunger_ for you in ways I’d never thought possible. You are so impossibly perfect, my darling.”

There was such a ravaging yearning in Aziraphale’s voice that Crowley felt it down to his bones. He shuddered at the sheer intensity of it, skin soaking it in like parched earth. He pulled Aziraphale’s scarf off his neck and threw it in the general direction of the couch, before getting to work on the buttons of his coat with trembling fingers.

“Off, angel. _Off_,” he bit out, frantically pulling at Aziraphale’s coat until it was gone. His frenzy seemed to clear Aziraphale’s mind a bit, since he slowed Crowley’s hands down, shushing him tenderly.

“What do you want for tonight, love?” Aziraphale murmured, carefully pulling Crowley’s sunglasses off his face and placing them on the desk. The sudden explosion of colour, of light, nearly made Crowley’s head spin. Aziraphale’s cheeks looked as red as cherries in the low lights, his eyes impossibly bright, as he relieved Crowley from his scarf and coat.

Crowley allowed the gentle touch, shaking in his stylish clothes as Aziraphale moved on to Crowley’s waistcoat, his tie, and eventually his shirt.

“I think,” Crowley breathed, relishing the welcoming touch of cool air across the burning, sweaty skin of his chest, “I think I want to get you out of those clothes. I feel like I haven’t touched your naked skin in ages.”

Aziraphale chuckled in reply, cradling Crowley’s wrists in his palms as he unbuttoned the cufflinks.

“I think we can manage that much,” he purred, pulling the purple shirt off Crowley’s shoulders before throwing it onto the couch and slowly stroking a hand down Crowley’s chest.

Crowley heard the hitch in his own breath as the touch left his skin tingling, the drag against the dark hairs on his chest almost as delicious as the whisper of fingertips along the trail down his stomach and around his navel, dipping into the waistband of his jeans. The hitch turned into a veritable gasp as Aziraphale rubbed his palm against the bulge of Crowley’s cock, more than half hard and painfully trapped against his leg by jeans that were becoming less and less comfortable by the minute.

“Already so hard, my darling,” Aziraphale whispered, his delicate touch turning Crowley insane with hunger. “My poor love.”

“_Angel_...”

“Sssh, my sweet boy,” Aziraphale purred, leaving Crowley’s erection be as he got down to work on his belt. “I’ll take care of you.”

Crowley swallowed hard as Aziraphale knelt in front of him, but those clever fingers only moved on to his right boot, keeping a gentle hold on Crowley’s scrawny calf as they freed his foot.

Once Crowley was standing on bare feet on the threadbare carpet, Aziraphale got back up, pressing a gentle kiss against Crowley’s jaw as he unbuttoned his jeans. The coarse cloth was soon pushed down Crowley’s legs together with his pants, and eventually Crowley was standing naked in Aziraphale’s living room, those warm, firm hands trailing down his spine.

“Will you help me with my waistcoat, dear?” Aziraphale playfully purred, squeezing each cheek of Crowley’s arse in one of his palms. “I seem to have my hands rather full at the moment.”

The pun was terrible enough to pull a snort out of Crowley’s throat, and he ducked his head just enough to place a gentle kiss onto Aziraphale’s lips as his hands went to work on Aziraphale’s waistcoat. Crowley hummed at the wet touch of Aziraphale’s tongue on his bottom lip, and opened his mouth, allowing the kiss to deepen. Aziraphale’s clothes soon joined Crowley’s over the couch, and they were treading frantic kisses as they stumbled into Aziraphale’s bedroom like the couple of drunken fools they were.

Aziraphale’s bare skin was just as heavenly as Crowley remembered. He let Aziraphale push him onto the mattress, and promptly pulled Aziraphale into bed with him, hands busy tracing the shape of his sturdy body with frantic need. The delicately sloped shoulders, the patch of curly hairs on his chest, the round belly, the sturdy thighs. Crowley kissed him deep and rolled on top of him, grinding their hard cocks together as he grabbed a handful of flesh from Aziraphale’s side and shuddered at the groan he got for his efforts.

“You feel so good, angel, so good,” Crowley gasped, the tight grasp of heavy hands on his arse a delicious counterpoint to the pressure of Aziraphale’s belly against his prick. He could feel the hard length of Aziraphale’s cock digging into his hip, sweat making for a slippery drag as it pushed into the dip of Crowley’s groin.

“My sweet boy, my darling love,” Aziraphale groaned, rutting into Crowley’s unyielding body with a strength that was just a bit vicious, “what do you want?”

“What, no clever ideas tonight?” Crowley laughed, wound up and breathless and _happy_, as he licked a stripe along Aziraphale’s neck and nipped at his jaw. “No well-thought scene? No articulate debauchery?”

“I thought you... ah! I thought you liked those,” Aziraphale mumbled back, something a bit hurt in his voice.

Crowley kissed the pout off his lips, lovingly, then pressed their foreheads together as he snapped his hips in a string of heavy thrusts, elbows digging into the mattress.

“Greedy angel, fishing for compliments,” he gasped, a laugh lurking in his broken voice. “You know I love them. You know.”

“Hmm,” Aziraphale sighed, hands roaming Crowley’s back, his thighs, the shadowy place between his buttocks where clever fingers rubbed against his clenched rim. “Still. No playing tonight, we’re both too sloshed and, ah, frankly too worked up for that. So, I’m asking. What would you like, love?”

Crowley took his time to answer, trying to clear his head as he sucked a bruise in the fleshy ridge of Aziraphale’s collarbone.

“I want to fuck you,” he said eventually, nipping the shell of Aziraphale’s ear before tracing a line of sucking kisses down his neck. “Can I fuck you, angel?”

“_Yes_,” Aziraphale gasped back, fingers digging almost painfully into the scant meat of Crowley’s arse. “How could I refuse, when you ask so nicely?”

Crowley considered protesting the preposterous accusation of him being nice in any way or form, but then decided to let it go and grabbed the lube from the night table instead. He had the tube uncapped and lube spread across his fingers in a heartbeat, and then he was reluctantly halting his stubborn grinding to move the barest minimum to push his hand between Aziraphale’s spread thighs and clenched cheeks.

“Oh, I _missed_ this,” Crowley sighed, rubbing lube into Aziraphale’s furled rim until it gave way just enough for two of his fingers to slip inside. Crowley remembered how little patience Aziraphale had outside their scenes, and was rewarded with a shuddering groan as he started to work Aziraphale fast and hard.

“Oh, like that, love, yes. Oh, your hands are so lovely,” Aziraphale gasped, fingers threading into Crowley’s hair and pulling at it just the right side of painful. Crowley groaned a little at that elusive sort of ache, grinding his cock into Aziraphale’s thigh as he fingered him as deep as the angle allowed.

Aziraphale felt _amazing_ around his fingers, hot and deliciously tight, and after a few judicious applications of lube wonderfully slippery. Crowley nosed down that fuzzy chest until he found a round, hardened nipple, and took it between his teeth.

The effect was instantaneous. Aziraphale gasped brokenly into the cool air of the flat, clenching hard around Crowley’s fingers as his half-hard cock bounced gently at the sharp snap of his hips.

“Oh, love, yes,” Aziraphale panted, shuddering under the weight of Crowley’s body, pinning him down. “That. Do it again.”

Crowley, being nothing but a gracious lover, complied without a word, sucking on the hard nub and pressing the line of his teeth against the sensitive flesh. Aziraphale’s chest was just as soft as the rest of him, delightfully giving, but even if the skin was a bit loose in places there was a sturdiness lurking underneath, a reliable sort of stoutness that Crowley, whose bony shape displayed a fragility that was only partially deceitful, had come to find impossibly alluring.

Crowley hadn’t had nearly enough time to play with Aziraphale’s barrel chest, but he remembered well enough what he liked best, the way a sweep of Crowley’s tongue right at the tip of a hardened nub as his teeth were clamped around the base would make Aziraphale buck under him like a wild horse. He moved back and forth between those delectable nipples until they were swollen and indubitably sensitive, fingering Aziraphale’s lovely arse well past the point of necessity.

Aziraphale was hard again by the time he was using his grip on Crowley’s hair to pull him away, instead of keeping him close, and leaking onto the swell of his own belly, as Crowley lazily pumped three fingers in and out of his arse while stroking the delicate perineum with his thumb. Not that Crowley was in any better shape, grinding against Aziraphale’s trembling thigh and leaking everywhere, but pleasuring Aziraphale was simply too sweet a thing to be rushed. It was such a rare allowance that Crowley had every intention of making the best of it, trying to give back at least a fraction of the pleasure Aziraphale always showered Crowley with. And the sight of those hazy eyes, pleased and deliciously overwhelmed, was a sight to behold.

“Enough, love,” Aziraphale sighed, pulling Crowley up for a shallow kiss. “I think I’d rather have you inside me when I climax, this time.”

Crowley felt the punch of those words into his gut, arousal zinging into his bloodstream like the lash of a whip. He gasped between clenched teeth, cock twitching helplessly above heavy balls as the hairs on his nape stood on end. He pulled himself laboriously off Aziraphale’s welcoming body, shivers tumbling down his spine as he stretched a hand towards the night table and fished for the condoms. He made a mess, dark little packets spilling onto the floor as the box skidded away from his clumsy grasp, but eventually he managed to sit back on his hunches with his hard-won spoil held between his index and middle finger like a magician showing off a trick. He grinned broadly at Aziraphale, who was staring at him with hungry eyes.

“How do you want this, angel?” Crowley purred, taking hold of his own cock, which was wilting a little, and pumping it a few times to bring it back to full hardness. Aziraphale’s hazy eyes followed every movement with impossible intensity, the tip of his tongue swiping unconsciously over his plump bottom lip.

“On all four,” he rasped, eyes bright and as hard as diamonds as he snapped them back up onto Crowley’s face. “And do put your back into it this time, my darling boy.”

Crowley scoffed, trying to hide the thrill slithering down his spine.

“Bossy, bossy,” he grumbled, shuffling back to give Aziraphale some space. He had to try twice to roll the condom over his erection, busy as he was to drink in the sight of Aziraphale moving onto his belly and lifting himself up on trembling hands and knees, presenting his rump for the taking. The plumpness of his arse was impossible to disguise so up close, nor the shape of his bollocks hanging between his sturdy thighs, the delicate white down mottling his legs down to his ankles. Crowley could see the shift of muscles under the softness, the thickness of his calves, the hard shape of his shoulders, the roundness of his belly beyond the graceful arch of his hard, dark cock.

_Jesus fucking Christ._

He was going to get a heart attack.

“Alright, angel,” he ground out, slathering his cock with way too much lube before positioning himself between Aziraphale’s parted legs. “Tell me if I’m going too fast.”

Aziraphale grunted something that could be vaguely interpreted as an agreement, and Crowley grabbed one of those plush cheeks with one hand and his cock with the other. Aziraphale’s hole looked lovely so up close, loose and shiny with lube, clenching around nothing. Crowley felt something twist in his guts as he shuffled nearer, and kept his grasp on that delectable cheek to hold it out of the way as he pressed the lube-drenched head of his cock, purple-red and squeezed inside the tight hold of the latex, against the delicate rim. Aziraphale groaned deep into his throat at the mounting pressure, head hanging between his shoulders as he propped himself up on trembling arms.

“You feel... angel, fuck,” Crowley gasped, hips inching forwards. He watched with wide, unblinking eyes as Aziraphale’s rim swallowed his cock, head popping inside with a rush of pressure from those tight walls that felt like vertigo.

“Crowley, oh, darling, _move_,” Aziraphale gasped, pushing back onto Crowley’s cock until it was buried to the hilt deep into his body. Only then he seemed to relax, dropping onto one elbow as he panted in heavy gasps into the covers.

Crowley barely felt the give of soft flesh as his hands curled around Aziraphale’s hips, fingers like claws sinking deep into tender skin as he fought for breath. The pressure around his cock was delicious, Aziraphale’s velvety heat sheathing his cock like a glove.

He tried his best to stay still, to allow Aziraphale some time to adjust, but Aziraphale had other ideas. Crowley had barely had the time to get used to the grip of that luscious body that Aziraphale was rocking his hips, fucking himself onto Crowley’s cock in a string of huffing breaths.

“Move, Crowley, love, _move_,” Aziraphale gasped, hands fisted into the sheets as he slammed his rump against Crowley’s bony hips again and again.

The pleasure was tortuous, it had teeth to bite. Crowley grasped Aziraphale’s hips and met him halfway, ramming into him almost painfully, and fucking out of him a sound that ricocheted under Crowley’s skin like shrapnel.

“Yes, love, _that_, yes,” Aziraphale hissed, then he didn’t say anything for quite a while, as harsh breaths and the slap of flesh against flesh filled the room. Crowley tried to keep his grip onto Aziraphale’s arse, spreading the fleshy cheeks wide enough to have an unobstructed view of the tight ring of his rim following the drag of Crowley’s flushed cock as he pulled out before slamming back in, but the pace wasn’t punishing enough for Aziraphale. Crowley could only just hold onto those hips and fuck roughly into him, over and over, swept under a pleasure so violent it was almost overwhelming.

“Come here, love, come here,” Aziraphale eventually groaned, turning just enough for Crowley to catch sight of his eyes, hazy and lovely and as bright as stars. He bent over, covering the shuddering expanse of Aziraphale’s broad back, slick with sweat.

The change in position made Aziraphale cry out, high and broken, as he pressed his forehead against the mattress and pushed back in stuttering thrusts. Crowley was sweating too, perspiration beading onto his skin, his brow, and dripping onto Aziraphale’s damp hair as he reached for the hand fisted into the bedding and threaded their fingers together.

“Is that alright, angel?” Crowley whispered, oddly tender for the way his hips were slamming against Aziraphale’s rump. “Is that what you wanted?”

“Oh, love, yes,” Aziraphale gasped, turning his head just enough to capture Crowley’s lips into a kiss. Crowley groaned against that plump mouth, Aziraphale’s sweet arse clenching around his cock in a way that was so deliriously good it was almost painful.

“Angel, _fuck_, angel,” he moaned, as Aziraphale lifted the hand that wasn’t currently being held by Crowley’s and wound his fingers around Crowley’s hair. They kissed again, messily, more treading breaths and the odd press of a tongue against parted lips than proper kisses.

“Touch me, sweetheart,” Aziraphale gasped, his body wonderful under Crowley, around Crowley, hot and slick and stout like a sun-kissed pebble on a beach washed over by the odd wave. “Push me over.”

“Yes, angel, _anything_,” Crowley groaned, clumsily slipping a hand between Aziraphale’s thighs to take hold of his cock. Crowley was almost completely balancing himself on Aziraphale’s back now, trusting him to take nearly his entire weight as his hips pistoned away, slamming into Aziraphale’s body over and over. He pulled at the hard flesh into his palm and Aziraphale exploded in a gasp so loud that Crowley wondered vaguely whether the neighbours would be sending the police any time soon.

“Like that, yes, oh, darling, my sweet darling love,” Aziraphale blabbered on, high and loud and unrestrained, between breathless kisses. Crowley did his best to keep up, but his body was on autopilot. He could feel the first sparks of his orgasm in his spine, threatening to sweep over him, and as hard as he tried to hold back, the way Aziraphale’s delightful body was squeezing around his cock was simply too overwhelming to be fought with any hope of success.

“Angel,” Crowley panted, poised right to the brink, madness swirling into his vein like wildfire as his body clamped hard, “fuck, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m, I’m...”

Crowley groaned, loud and shuddering, as he started spilling into the condom, body still going, toes curling, hand clumsily working Aziraphale’s prick without any input from his brain. He felt his hole clench around nothing, his hairs stand on end, as pleasure spread through his veins, violent and unstoppable. He trembled and shook through it, clamping his teeth into Aziraphale’s shoulder, making him twitch around his cock as he gasped softly into the bedding. He realised vaguely that Aziraphale was still talking, somewhere at the edge of his consciousness, and fought to focus on that well-loved voice.

“Oh, love, it’s all right, it’s all right, I have you, my sweet darling,” Aziraphale was saying, over and over, as he covered Crowley’s sweaty cheek in kisses. He barely felt it as Aziraphale slapped away the hand Crowley was ineffectually holding his cock with, loose and lax, and replaced it with his own. “You’re still hard, love, can you keep still? For me? I just need a moment, oh, my darling heart, my sweet Crowley...”

“Yes, angel, yes,” Crowley panted into Aziraphale’s shoulders, trying to catch a breath, to slow down the drumming of his mad heart. His whole body felt electrified, aftershocks trailing like thunderbolts over his skin as he quivered and trembled through the last dredges of his orgasm. He cried out in shock as Aziraphale clenched down hard onto his oversensitive cock, riding his own climax, and he found himself slumped onto Aziraphale’s broad back as he sucked in shuddering gasps. Aziraphale’s knees had given out as he came, and now he was sprawled onto his belly, gasping into the pillow as Crowley rubbed his nose lazily against his sweaty back.

“That was...” Aziraphale started, between gasps.

“Yes,” Crowley agreed, peppering the hollow between Aziraphale’s shoulder blades with gasping kisses. He could feel his heart beginning to slow down, sweat breaking onto his cooling skin. He shifted just enough to let his wilting cock slip out of the tight heat of Aziraphale’s body and then resumed his lazy sprawl, content to leech onto Aziraphale’s delicious heat even as sweat pooled between their bodies and his skin slowly cooled down.

“Hmm,” Aziraphale grumbled in lieu of an answer, grabbing Crowley’s hand and bringing it to his lips. Crowley nosed the back of Aziraphale’s nape, damp with sweat, and nuzzled at the soft down covering the skin just beneath the roots of the very first curls.

They stayed like that for a while, long enough that Crowley was starting both to fall asleep and freeze in the cool air. He was curled up into a ball on top of Aziraphale when the man, probably sensing that Crowley was about to catch his death while being way too lazy to do anything about it, placed another kiss on the hand he was clutching close to his lips and turned his head.

“What do you say about getting into bed, darling?” Aziraphale murmured, voice low and wonderfully soothing. “It’s late. We should get some sleep.”

“Too tired to move,” Crowley slurred, even if the condom was starting to itch and threatened to slip off his softening cock any moment now. “We could sleep like this. You’re very comfortable.”

“My, thank you, love,” Aziraphale snorted, “how kind.” A pause, as Aziraphale kissed once again Crowley’s hand and tried to nudge him off his back. “You know that the longer you wait, the worst it will be.”

Crowley grumbled under his breath for an answer, but he couldn’t really fault Aziraphale’s observation. He nuzzled a while longer the tender skin behind Aziraphale’s neck, before reaching down to keep the condom in place and laboriously sat back on his hunches. That turned out to be the perfect observation point to admire Aziraphale’s sprawled form in all its glory, and Crowley did just that, staring at the naked expanse of Aziraphale’s back and rump until he got a lifted brow and a questioning stare for his trouble.

“I marked you up,” Crowley pointed out, tipping his body forward just enough to press lazy fingers against the darkening bruise on Aziraphale’s shoulder. There were reddish shapes mottling the pale column of his neck, too, but they looked well on their way to fade out. They’d be gone by morning, much to Crowley’s disappointment.

“Hmm,” Aziraphale sighed, pleased and lazy, “you did? Well, then. I’d love to see that for myself in the mirror, if you were amenable to get off my back any time soon.”

Crowley snorted, but finally slipped off Aziraphale’s tempting body. He pulled off the condom as Aziraphale rolled over, taking a moment to tie it up before refocusing his attention on the supine body lying right in front of him. Aziraphale’s front was just as delectable as his back, and Crowley felt a stab of hunger at the sight of that thick cock resting unassumingly onto those heavy bollocks. If he hadn’t been so thoroughly wiped out, he would’ve had half a mind to lie down between Aziraphale’s thighs and use his mouth to bring him back to full hardness, but they were both a little the worse for wear, and there was drying come speckling Aziraphale’s belly and crotch. There was also a dark patch on Aziraphale’s quilt, which they both spotted at the same time.

“Oh, that’s going to stain,” Aziraphale sighed, wrinkling his nose. “I forgot to get a towel.”

“’s tartan, you won’t even know it’s there,” Crowley said, trying his best to be helpful. “Leave it. Let’s go to sleep. We’ll deal with it in the morning.”

“That’s disgusting,” Aziraphale protested, which prompted a short laugh from Crowley as he climbed down the bed.

“Want to go first, angel?” he remembered a little belatedly to ask, but his concerns were promptly waved away.

“You go first, love. I’ll see what I can do about this.”

“As you wish,” Crowley chuckled, disappearing into the bathroom. He tried to be quick about it, but eventually caved in and took a short but much-needed hot shower before brushing his teeth. He was wonderfully relaxed, sated in a way that had only very little to do with the alcohol he’d poured down his throat and a lot to do with the frankly fantastic sex he’d just practically crawled away from. He could feel a not-so-lovely ache starting to set into his well-used muscles, but he relished that too in a way, like the exhaustion weighing heavy upon his shoulder, and he was tired but deeply content as he stepped out of the bathroom.

He came back to a window cracked open and a brand-new quilt, rigorously tartan, spread over the bed.

“Oh, there you are,” Aziraphale chirped, walking into the bedroom stark naked and apparently not bothered in the slightest by the wintry air slithering into the room. He’d cleaned himself summarily, but he’d taken more care in cleaning up the mess Crowley had made of his bedroom than getting himself sorted. He did close the window, though, before walking past Crowley and into the bathroom. “Get some clothes on, love. You’ll catch your death like that.”

Crowley grumbled under his breath, but did what he was told. Aziraphale had obviously spent some time setting the living room back to rights as well as cleaning himself summarily up, since it looked much more put together than Crowley had thought it would as he went looking for his sleepwear. Aziraphale’s clothes had all but disappeared, and Crowley’s had been carefully folded and placed over the couch. Crowley grabbed his boxer from the pile and slipped them on with shivering fingers, before fishing for his vest in his overnight bag and hurrying back to Aziraphale’s warm, welcoming bed.

He was already curled up under the thick covers and just about to start reaping some benefits from his body warming up the sheets when Aziraphale came back, turning off the lights and slipping into bed. He was already dressed in his fleece pyjama, warm and soft and so very welcoming, and Crowley wasted no time curling up into his side and slotting the crown of his head into the sweet divot under Aziraphale’s jaw. He was already half-asleep, but perked up a little at the feeling of a strong arm cradling him close, and gentle fingers stroking his shoulder under the covers.

“You were so good to me, love, telling me all about the naughty things you did to himself while we were apart,” Aziraphale whispered, something a bit wicked in his voice, “although...”

“Hmm?”

“Well, I do wonder how you find the time to do anything at all, with how often you indulge yourself.” A soft, half-stifled titter. “Can you even go a day without sticking your hands into your pants, darling?”

Crowley snorted, too tired and sleepy to laugh, but terribly amused nonetheless.

“Well,” he slurred, slotting their legs together as he played with the tuft of white curls peeking out of Aziraphale’s pyjama top, whose first button had been left undone, “I like to start the day with a wank in the shower. It brightens my morning.”

Aziraphale’s chuckle chimed like a bell in his ear, and Crowley was smiling into the soft fleece covering that sturdy chest as he slowly drifted off.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, lovely people, we are finally over the 300k threshold. Way over. It’s actually hard to believe. I can’t be anything but dreadfully grateful to every single one of you who is still with me by this point. You are the very best <3  
The usual buckets of love and gratitude in particular to [uponwhatgrounds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uponwhatgrounds/pseuds/uponwhatgrounds), who has gifted me with yet another [gorgeous illustration](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26406721) for the last chapter. I am as always overwhelmed by such kindness. You, my dear artist, are a gift.  
This chapter is a very long one, and I truly hope you will enjoy it!

It was a pressure in his lower belly that woke Crowley up. He cracked open sticky lids and allowed a choked-off grumble to vibrate in his throat as the soft light coming through the curtains hit his delicate eyes (and even more delicate nervous system, which wasn’t obviously finding the morning after half as fun as the evening of debauchery). He was sprawled on his belly, half on top of Aziraphale and half on the mattress, with his head resting on the sturdy pillow of Aziraphale’s chest and his fingers lazily threaded into blond curls. It was a rather nice predicament to wake up to, but Crowley felt groggy, slow, aching almost everywhere, and his mouth tasted like something had died in there. His bladder also seemed one step away from bursting, which was what had woken him up in the first place.

It took him a moment to disentangle himself from Aziraphale’s grip, but eventually Crowley managed to stumble into the bathroom, where he took the longest piss of his life and decided to devote a handful of minutes to try and brush away that foul taste from his mouth.

He came back to a bleary-eyed Aziraphale, who looked about as lively as Crowley himself felt. Aziraphale waited for Crowley to slip into bed and nuzzle sleepily at his cheek before getting up himself and trudging to the bathroom. He came back about five minutes later, only too happy to slip back under the covers, even if the air there was stifling hot. Crowley had very obviously sweated out the alcohol through the night, and so had Aziraphale, but they ended up curled around each other anyway, legs tightly entwined as Crowley pressed his head into the hollow of Aziraphale’s throat while Aziraphale cradled him against his chest.

They had probably fallen asleep again, since the light filtering through the curtains seemed much brighter as Crowley blinked open eyes he didn’t remember to have closed. Aziraphale was sleeping more or less soundly, his face smashed into Crowley’s hair and his regular breath brushing Crowley’s scalp in a way that pulled a shiver out of him. He still felt groggy and aching, but the sweat had dried out some on his skin, and his head didn’t feel about to pound away until it fell off his neck, so Crowley decided to take that as a good sign. He also realise vaguely that he or Aziraphale had at some point thrown the squeaky-clean comforter onto the ground, which was the reason why the warm air under the covers seemed a lot less suffocating this time around. Aziraphale, who couldn’t be bother to sweep the place until his dust bunnies had reached the size of Godzilla, would indubitably be thrilled to find that out. Oh, well.

The subject of his lazy deliberations chose that exact moment to stir into consciousness, grumbling a half-hearted protest in the deep of his throat at Crowley’s obviously unnecessary wriggling about. They were entangled so tightly with each other that the slightest shift would’ve probably been enough to disturb Aziraphale’s sleep, and Crowley felt a clumsy hand worrying at the hem of his vest long enough to push it out of the way, before lazy fingers wormed their way into his pants. With a heavy palm cupping the meat of his arse and fingers kneading the flesh, Crowley felt no compunction in grinding his morning erection into the sturdy thigh Aziraphale had so helpfully shoved between his legs at some point during the early hours of the morning.

“Is that the reason you woke me up at this ungodly hour?” Aziraphale grumbled against his hair, but whatever bite his voice might have held, it was utterly undermined by the way his own hardening cock was pushing against Crowley’s stomach.

“I can see how inconvenienced you are,” Crowley bit back, barely managing to keep his voice steady as a shiver trickled down his spine. The pressure on his cock was exquisite, and pleasure was pooling low and sticky in his belly despite the hangover as he rolled his hips and shamelessly humped Aziraphale’s sturdy flesh. He felt Aziraphale grasp the meat of his arse a bit more tightly, pulling at the puckered flesh of his hole, which clenched around nothing. Crowley gasped at the sensation, and quickly shoved his hand into the back of Aziraphale’s pants, grabbing a handful of soft flesh for himself as Aziraphale ground his cock against Crowley’s belly.

“I wouldn’t have minded sleeping a bit longer,” Aziraphale purred, straight into his ear, “especially after last night, but which sort of terrible Dom would I be, if I didn’t take care of my darling Crowley’s needs?”

The pointed, electric tenderness of those words brushed Crowley’s skin like electricity. He stuttered in his thrusts, suddenly wide awake and bristling with hunger, with _need_, as Aziraphale’s lazy fingers stroked down the cleft of his arse until they found Crowley’s clenching hole. The touch yanked a shuddering gasp out of Crowley’s throat, as he sank his fingers into the soft flesh of Aziraphale’s arse.

“Are you feeling a bit empty, my sweet boy?” Aziraphale crooned, rubbing Crowley’s rim as his hips kept on their steady grinding against Crowley’s belly. “Would you like my fingers? Or something else?”

Crowley groaned, thinking about that _something else_. Aziraphale’s cock? A toy? Either would be good, would be _lovely_. But he felt a bit too impatient, too tired and too wired up to wait that long. He was aching and sleepy and a bit hungover and he just wanted to drink in Aziraphale’s closeness, touch and be touched. The day was (relatively) young, after all. They had all the time they wanted to get up to any sort of mischief, perhaps when Crowley was a bit more awake and feeling a bit less queasy.

“Fingers,” he choked out, hips snapping. “’m not going to last.”

“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to,” Aziraphale purred, kissing his temple, his forehead, his closed eyes. “I enjoy breaking you, over and over and over.”

Crowley whined at that, shivering so hard he felt his teeth clatter. He whined again as that wonderful, broad hand slipped out of his pants, and clung tightly to Aziraphale as the duvet was shoved out of the way and he was pushed partly onto his back. Crowley’s rabid thrusting didn’t stop even as Aziraphale stretched out a hand to yank the drawer on his night table open and pull out the lube, and he heard the rumble of a soft chuckle in Aziraphale’s chest as he blindly scraped his teeth against Aziraphale’s neck.

“My poor, neglected boy,” Aziraphale crooned, settling onto the mattress and pulling Crowley back into his arms. “It’s been a while since I’ve taken care of you properly, isn’t it?”

Crowley hummed his heartfelt approval as his pants were pulled off, hard cock springing free. Aziraphale spared a moment to eye it with obvious appreciation, before snapping open the tube and getting some lube on his fingers. He tossed the tube onto the mattress and warmed the lube between his fingers for a moment, before reaching around and rubbing lube into Crowley’s fluttering rim. Crowley groaned at the touch, a shuddering, feverish sound, squeezing one of the thick cheeks of Aziraphale’s arse into one hand as he grabbed a fistful of Aziraphale’s hair with the other. Aziraphale groaned at the pull, hips stuttering in their thrusts, and Crowley licked a stripe along the column of Aziraphale’s neck as the tip of Aziraphale’s index slowly pushed inside.

“Angel,” Crowley gasped, feeling his nerve endings lit up, skin leaking electricity as though a wire had been torn open somewhere deep into his flesh. He pushed his newly-freed erection into Aziraphale’s thigh, riding the delicious friction, and wishing he had enough coordination left to pull the bloody pyjama out of the way and grind against Aziraphale’s naked flesh. He was supposed to have had his fill the night before, but Crowley was greedy, and way too enamoured of the way Aziraphale’s naked body felt against his own to appreciate the extra layers.

Aziraphale kept up the steady rubbing and gentle shallow breaching for a while, as though Crowley needed to be eased into it, as though he wasn’t shaking with the need of being penetrated, of being split open, filled to the brim, and took his sweet time to push his index all the way in. Crowley wailed as he felt his rim clench around the girth of it, the joints of Aziraphale’s other fingers digging painfully into the scant meat of his arse where he kept them curled against his palm.

“There you are, my darling, my love,” Aziraphale crooned, and Crowley felt almost like crying at the tenderness of that voice, at the gentleness with which Aziraphale was holding him close with a hand curled delicately around his nape while he fingered his arse. He sounded out of breath, and Crowley did his best to provide friction against the hard cock digging into his belly. He pulled at Aziraphale’s cotton-tuft hair, making him gasp, as he pushed a finger down his cleft, delicately rubbing the pad against Aziraphale’s tender hole. He wasn’t going to finger Aziraphale again, with how thoroughly he’d been buggered the night before, but Crowley knew how good it felt to have the oversensitive skin there stroked, or lower still, across the perineum. He kept the touch light, uncertain on whether the gentle stimulation across his rim would be too much for Aziraphale, but he needn’t have worried.

“Oh, that’s lovely, darling, just lovely,” Aziraphale panted, reassuring him that his touch was indeed welcome. Crowley thought vaguely about saying something, a velvety, pointed whisper of a sort enquiring about the state of Aziraphale’s arse after having been shagged into oblivion by his dedicated lover, but he felt way too hazy and blissed out to think of anything. The mere feeling of Aziraphale’s well-used rim clenching under the pad of his finger was enough to bring back memories that were a bit too titillating for the (relatively) early hour and the sad state of his nerves. He groaned, deep into his throat, as he used the hand sunk deep into Aziraphale’s hair to bring his head down for a kiss.

Aziraphale obliged with a sigh, hips snapping against Crowley’s belly just as Crowley kept riding his thigh with something close to desperation. Aziraphale’s lips felt warm and lovely, so impossibly soft against his own, and Crowley teased that plump bottom lip with his tongue until he could plunge inside, licking the taste of sleep from Aziraphale’s mouth. They kissed and kissed and kissed, as Aziraphale carefully slid another finger in his arse and pressed in deep, brushing his prostate. Pleasure swirled into his tired flesh in a wave, and Crowley groaned into the kiss, relishing the sting just as much as the pointed stimulation. He pushed back against the steady pressure before snapping his hip forward, rubbing his aching, leaking cock against Aziraphale’s thigh.

“You’re doing so well, my sweet boy, taking two of my fingers,” Aziraphale gasped against Crowley’s mouth. “You feel so wondrously inside. Oh, how could I go so long without taking you? I won’t let you go home until you’ve been thoroughly seen to, my darling.”

“We have the entire day, angel,” Crowley couldn’t help but laugh, a wheezy, panting thing, “I’m sure you’ll find the time to fuck me at some point.”

Aziraphale hummed a bit wickedly in reply, twisting his fingers deep inside Crowley in a way that sent a stab of shuddering pleasure straight into Crowley’s guts. The angle was all wrong for Aziraphale to reach for his prostate with ease, but he was surely putting up a hell of a fight. Crowley groaned into it, skin breaking up in goosebumps, aching and loose and damp everywhere, as he reached lower and stroked Aziraphale’s perineum with his fingertips.

“Oh, darling,” Aziraphale groaned, tensing up against Crowley as his hips stuttered into a few savage thrusts before slowing down. He was shivering, but he didn’t let up, pressing his lips to Crowley’s forehead as he resumed his unsteady fingering. Crowley felt surrounded by Aziraphale, nearly drowning in him, head spinning, body burning in waves of dizzying pleasure.

“Your turn now, my love,” Aziraphale whispered, quiet and breathless, pressing the bridge of his nose against Crowley’s brow. “Come for me.”

And Crowley, as though a cord had been plucked deep into his belly, did just so. His orgasm washed over him like the tide, unexpected and overwhelming, cock twitching as he came in almost painful spurts all over Aziraphale’s pyjama. He groaned at that flesh-deep, wrenching pleasure, twitching in Aziraphale’s arms without control, hips snapping forward over and over and over until his cock grew soft and oversensitive. Only then he deflated, going almost boneless in Aziraphale’s tender embrace.

They stayed like that for a while, after. Crowley barely registered Aziraphale wiping his fingers clean on his own pyjama top before rolling to his side, pulling Crowley with him as he cradled him with painful tenderness against his chest.

“Morning, angel,” Crowley belatedly mumbled, lazily nuzzling at Aziraphale’s fleece-covered chest. He felt the rumble of Aziraphale’s chuckle on his own skin, tightly pressed as he was against him.

“Good morning to you, my darling. How are we feeling today?”

“Right now, sated. Can’t say how long it will last, though.”

Aziraphale snorted, an undignified sound full of humour.

“Well, I’m glad I could be of service in some small way,” he chuckled, the mock-petulance of his words belied by the hand he was currently squeezing Crowley’s arse with. The other was gently stroking his back, an up-and-down motion that had no right to be that soothing. “I meant your hangover. How are you feeling, love?”

“I didn’t drink nearly enough last night to be properly hungover,” Crowley huffed, fastening his arms around Aziraphale’s neck and pulling him down for a kiss, just a messy press of lips against lips. Aziraphale went willingly, but Crowley knew, without even seeing his face, that he was less than satisfied with his answer. He pulled away with a sight before the kiss could deepen. “’m fine, just a bit queasy. It’ll go away once I eat something. Bit of a headache, which might or might not go away with food. That’s about it.”

Aziraphale hummed his approval against Crowley’s neck, a deep, pleased sound.

“I’m feeling about the same. And I’m getting quite hungry, I must admit. A bit too much activity so early in the morning, especially after a rather strenuous night.”

Crowley snorted, the sound quickly turning into a laugh.

“So early in the morning being,” a quick look at his phone, “almost eleven o’clock. How do you even cope with being woken up at the crack of dawn, I wonder?”

“Cheeky boy,” Aziraphale grumbled, making Crowley laugh again. “Fine, I’m hungry and I have a bit of a headache. As lovely as lounging in bed with you is, I think we should at least try to get up and get something in our bellies. If that won’t suffice, I have some painkillers for our poor, weary heads.”

“I could make something for you, if your kitchen is up to the task,” Crowley offered, affectionately stroking Aziraphale’s cheek.

Aziraphale’s deep sigh, full of relief, was all the answer Crowley needed.

“Oh, would you, dear boy? You don’t have to, but it would be so lovely to stay in for breakfast. I don’t think my head would appreciate being around loud people, and everyone seems just so _lively_ on a Saturday morning.”

“How unbecoming of them,” Crowley snorted. “Fine, fine. ‘m getting up. Should I get the first turn in the shower? That way I could get started with our breakfast while you dally under the spray.”

“I do not _dally_ under the spray,” Aziraphale protested, “I merely take the time to see to it that I am properly clean.”

“Sure thing, you big hedonist,” Crowley laughed, placing a little peck on the tip of Aziraphale’s nose before extricating himself from his grip. Aziraphale didn’t seem particularly overjoyed to let go of Crowley’s arse, but apparently breakfast was truly reason enough. Soon Crowley was up on slightly unsteady legs, picking his way to the bathroom.

He was about to close the door after him when he heard a displeased grumble coming from the bedroom.

“Oh, look at the state of my poor quilt! Where is all this dust even coming from?”

Crowley considered administering a little sharp remark, but the poor man seemed to be already in enough pain. He was still chuckling to himself as he hopped into Aziraphale’s claw-footed bathtub, just as the grumbles from the other side carried on.

* * *

A shower was exactly what Crowley needed. Aziraphale’s ancient heating system could only handle so much hot water in one go, so Crowley always strove to be as quick and sparing as possible when he had the first turn, but washing away the stink of alcohol intermingled with sweat was downright heavenly. He hopped out of the bathtub feeling markedly better, situation only improved by a quick brushing of his teeth, and he was still busy rubbing himself down with one of Aziraphale’s fluffy towels as he walked into the bedroom.

The bed had been stripped, but the window was still closed (no doubt in an effort to prevent Crowley from developing frostbite, since he had this time-honoured habit of walking stark naked out of the bathroom), and Aziraphale was standing close to the night table, busy folding his quilt. He paused in his task at the sight of Crowley strutting in with not a single stitch of fabric on him, aside from the dirty sleepwear he clutched in his hand. Crowley didn’t think he would ever tire of being eyed so appreciatively, especially when it was Aziraphale’s hungry eyes tracking the bony ridges of his body.

“Bathroom’s yours, angel,” Crowley drawled, putting just a bit of a show as he swaggered into the living room. He felt Aziraphale’s eyes on him the entire way.

As predicted, Aziraphale lingered under the hot spray until it was ice cold, which meant that Crowley was almost done with their breakfast by the time he lazily strolled into the kitchen. He’d taken the time to get dressed in one of his warm-looking sweaters, crisp shirt underneath but no bowtie in sight, while Crowley had simply slipped into a clean pair of pants and socks and had promptly stolen Aziraphale’s dressing gown from the peg behind the bedroom door where it was usually hung. Crowley caught a satisfied smile lighting up Aziraphale’s features as he took him in.

“Just in time for breakfast, angel,” Crowley grinned, dusting a pinch of salt over Aziraphale’s poached eggs before plating them. Aziraphale got quickly down to work on setting up the table, and soon they were seated on Aziraphale’s mismatched chairs, enjoying their breakfast. There was nothing like cooked food to set a queasy stomach in Crowley’s opinion, and soon even the last dregs of his hangover started to slip away.

They chattered lazily through their breakfast, alternating short bouts of conversation to silent chewing, until the topic of the previous night was finally broached. Aziraphale had obviously had quite a lot of fun at the party, and seemed singularly delighted that Crowley had been there. He recounted a few exchanges that he’d found particularly hilarious or noteworthy, and then went on a bit about Tracy and the affair she was very obviously having with the scruffy gatekeeper.

“Shadwell doesn’t really like to show it, but he actually adores Tracy,” Aziraphale giggled, as though handing over a particularly juicy morsel. It made Crowley laugh out loud.

“You are just as bad as Anathema is, gossiping about office romance,” he snorted, only to be answered with a peeved huff.

“Well, according to Anathema, _you_ are just as bad as she is. Just not about romance.”

_Touché._ Crowley couldn’t really deny that one.

“Yes, well, I prefer my gossip to have some meat on its bones,” he chuckled, gracefully giving ground. “And dirty secrets are much more fun than just a bit of goofy romance.”

“I disagree. Secrets are only fun when they are sweet, not harmful.”

“I wouldn’t call them harmful,” Crowley countered, though he remembered perfectly well a few conversations he had with Anathema about which of their colleagues used Tinder (or Grinder) at work before going home to their happy family. “But I can see your point.”

That was enough to make Aziraphale preen like a peacock over his sliced bacon, which of course prompted Crowley’s next little quip.

“Anyway, should we talk about why Anathema thinks that your ex broke your heart?” he purred, knowing that he was edging dangerous territory and ready to back down if Aziraphale showed any particular sign of distress. “She told me as much, a while ago. I was convinced for a long time that you were just another bloke still hung up on his ex, who would never take another relationship just as seriously.”

Crowley realised as he was speaking that he was saying way more than he had meant to. The silence that came after was a bit awkward, and Crowley did his level best to stare at his breakfast instead of checking which expression Aziraphale was wearing. That was more than dangerous ground. That was uncomfortably close to home.

“Oh,” Aziraphale eventually sighed, low and just a bit damning in Crowley’s ears. “I see. Well. A lot of things make sense, now.”

Crowley almost snapped his hand out of range when he felt a warm palm cover his knuckles, but he managed to tamper down his startled instincts just in time. Aziraphale’s eyes were warm and a bit sad as Crowley dared look up, his smile full of understanding.

“I’m sorry, love. I’d never thought you could be under that impression, or I would’ve said something sooner.” A gentle squeeze, Aziraphale’s hand warm and lovely against his own. “I hope you know now that’s really not the case.”

“Yes, I know,” Crowley answered, a little off-balanced and therefore snippier than usual. “I did ask, didn’t I?”

“I’m glad you did. I couldn’t bear the thought of you still being under that misconception, thinking that Robert could ever mean to me more than you do.”

It was a bit uncomfortable to hear his thoughts being bared like that, but there was a small, secret part of Crowley that still needed to hear those words, and basked into them even as the rest of him virtually squirmed.

A change of topic, perhaps, was in order.

“You didn’t tell Anathema the whole truth,” he said, aware of the little mischievous spark lighting up his grin. He hid it behind a forkful of scrambled eggs and beans, though he held very little hope that his eyes weren’t giving him brazenly away.

It was Aziraphale’s turn to squirm, now.

“Well, it _was_ a difficult breakup,” he grumbled, sipping at his tea in an obvious attempt at taking time before giving ground with a sigh. “Fine. I might have been less than forthcoming, and when she drew the wrong conclusions, well. I didn’t exactly rush to disabuse her of her conjectures.”

“You lied to her,” Crowley surmised, more than a little amused.

Aziraphale huffed, brows knitted into a frown.

“What was I supposed to say? I broke up with my partner because he wasn’t very keen on fringe sexual practices and I despair that I’ll ever fit anywhere, or with anyone?”

The tirade was cut short as Aziraphale realised exactly what was coming out of his mouth. He clamped it shut, looking chagrined and a bit uncomfortable.

Crowley slowly turned the hand Aziraphale was holding until he was holding him back, stocky fingers safely cradled in Crowley’s palm.

“She probably would’ve loved that,” he said, low and careful. He was offering Aziraphale a way out, and it was accepted with a grateful smile.

“She probably would.” A sigh, as Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hand one last time before going back to his breakfast. “She’s an unrepentant busybody with way too much interest in other people’s lives.”

“Kettle, pot,” Crowley mumbled under his breath, low enough that Aziraphale could pretend he hadn’t heard.

They took their time to finish their breakfast, lingering by the table until it was early afternoon, drinking respectively tea and coffee and chattering about nothing in particular. The coffee was the ridiculous freeze-dried sort that turned into a half-decent slop when drown in boiling water, but the fact that Aziraphale had bought it purposely for Crowley made up for any fault he might find with it. Crowley was still getting used to things being done specifically for him, and was both taken aback and warmed up to the bone every time anew. He smiled at Aziraphale like the love-drunken fool he was, and was delighted to see the same brand of sappy delight being reflected back at him.

Although breakfast had worked wonders for Crowley’s body, who was obviously much more used to whisky than his companion, Aziraphale’s hangover seemed to be rather stubbornly set on lingering as long as possible. That gave Crowley exactly the sort of leverage he needed to take over the cleaning up and send Aziraphale off to the couch with a glass of water and stern instructions to get some painkillers from the cabinet in the bathroom and rest his head. Aziraphale didn’t look particularly eager about the whole business, but he did comply, if a bit begrudgingly. When Crowley finally walked out of the kitchen, a good twenty minutes later, he found Aziraphale sprawled on the couch with a closed book in his lap, his head reclined against the backrest and his eyes closed.

“How are you feeling, angel?” Crowley murmured in a low, careful voice, as he sat by his side. Aziraphale cracked an eye open and simply took Crowley in for a moment, before straightening up with a sigh.

“Much better, actually. My stomach is mostly settled, and the headache is all but gone. I was just being a bit lazy, that’s all.”

Crowley hummed, curling up against his side and nuzzling into his cheek.

“I like you lazy,” he murmured, then pulled back just enough to stroke the soft line of Aziraphale’s jaw. “We could stay in today, what do you think? Watch the telly or something.”

“If you think you can conjure that old thing to work again, why not?” Aziraphale chuckled, turning his head just enough to kiss Crowley’s palm. “I’d love to stay home today, if you don’t mind. I don’t feel much like walking around. Not yet, at least.”

“Oh, I think I can convince the poor thing to give it an old college try,” Crowley snorted, sliding down the couch and approaching the ancient set. Aziraphale had pulled out the plug, obviously concerned about burning his place down, but the cables were exactly where Crowley had left them. He smiled a little to himself at the physical proof that his presence had left a trace in Aziraphale’s home, no matter how small, and plugged the telly back in.

The pitiful thing whirred back to life in a hiss of static, and it took Crowley a good ten minutes to find some obscure channel within its limited capacities. Whatever that channel was, it was transmitting what looked like some old western, which wasn’t exactly Crowley’s cup of tea but it would do in a pinch. He lowered the volume a little, given how sensitive their weary heads still were, and climbed back onto the couch. He grabbed the fleece blanket folded over the backrest and pulled up his feet, fussing about until it covered Aziraphale’s legs and as much of Crowley’s body as physically possible.

“You don’t mind if I read a bit, don’t you?” Aziraphale hummed after a short while, winding an arm around Crowley’s shoulders and pulling him closer for a kiss on his temple.

“Go ahead, angel,” Crowley replied, more than happy to bask in Aziraphale’s presence. That was promising to be a lazy, cosy afternoon, and with that blasted Christmas family reunion in sight Crowley had every intention on revelling into that simple kind of warmth as much as he could.

But things, of course, could never be as easy as that. As the day slowly rolled by, and the last dredges of his hangover disappeared, Aziraphale’s disposition started slowly but inexorably to change. The man tried his best to conceal it, but Crowley was too attuned to his moods and pressed way too tight against his body to miss it. As the movie slowly approached its end, Aziraphale had started to grow tense, restless, to the point that he’d even given up on reading (an ominous sign if there had ever been one) and tried without much success to follow whatever was on the telly. It didn’t look like he was finding it particularly enjoyable, or particularly interesting. He was rather obviously staring at the screen without seeing it, mouth set in a line that was turning grimmer and grimmer, but what tipped Crowley definitely off was that Aziraphale didn’t even seem to notice he was being observed.

Something, eventually, appeared to cue him in. Aziraphale blinked at the rolling credits on screen and blinked slowly at Crowley, whose head was propped onto his shoulder and who was staring straight at him. Aziraphale tried for a smile, a pitiful, unconvincing thing, as he slipped his fingers through Crowley’s hair.

“Are you all right, dear?” he asked, pressing a gentle kiss against Crowley’s forehead. Crowley allowed the touch, because he really couldn’t force himself to reject even one of Aziraphale’s little shows of affection, but he knew deflection when he saw it. He’d mastered the art a long time before, and now he was basically a pro.

“Are _you_ alright, angel?” he asked, pulling back just enough to search Aziraphale’s face with sharp eyes.

Aziraphale shrugged, looking subtly away.

“Why, of course I am. I told you, my hangover is all well and gone. I’m fit as a fiddle.”

Crowley could leave it at that, he _should_ leave it at that, actually, but he couldn’t. He had an inkling about what sort of bee had wriggled its way into Aziraphale’s bonnet and he didn’t like it one bit. He didn’t care if he was diving head first into treacherous waters. If they had to have another fight about it, so be it. Crowley wasn’t going to leave his partner dwelling in his misery.

“’m not talking about that. Something’s off about you. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, dear. What could possibly be wrong?”

“That’s what I’m asking you,” Crowley countered, gently but firmly. “Out with it, angel.”

He saw it in Aziraphale’s eyes, then. The moment where he tottered between the next polite denial, followed by a quick deflection, and the truth. Crowley held Aziraphale’s stare with unblinking eyes, waiting to see on which side the coin would fall. He wasn’t sure what he would do if Aziraphale kept on with his pretences. Aziraphale had always been more than careful with Crowley’s, after all, waiting Crowley out until he was ready to deal with whatever he was refusing to acknowledge, and had never pushed him past his comfort zone. Crowley should probably do the same. But how could he look away from Aziraphale’s pain? Then again, how could he help, if Aziraphale denied there was any pain at all?

The moment shattered like glass, as Aziraphale glanced away with a sigh. Crowley felt the cresting tension melt away, and realised he hadn’t blinked, hadn’t even breathed for who knew how many seconds. It felt like an eternity, as he inhaled deeply and waited Aziraphale out.

“Would you mind...” Aziraphale began, then stopped, something a bit hunted flitting over his face. “No. I’m sorry. Forget it.”

“What, angel?” Crowley asked, sensing an opening and going for it with the delicate grace of a bull in a china shop. “Tell me. I’ll probably not mind at all, whatever it is.”

His quip seemed to give the expected results. Aziraphale chuckled, low and soft in his throat, as the gentle petting of Crowley’s hair slowly resumed.

“I know you won’t. That’s why I’m not asking.”

“Angel,” Crowley sighed, nuzzling into Aziraphale’s cheek to take away a little the sharpness of his reply, “‘m not in the mood for riddles. Out with it.”

Another long pause, then Aziraphale’s voice, oddly vulnerable.

“I feel... I feel a bit, ah, out of sorts, I think,” he started. He sounded incongruously subdued, cowered in a way that Crowley hadn’t heard from him ever since they’d come back from the wedding. He kissed Aziraphale’s cheek, effectively hiding his face from those keen eyes. He didn’t want Aziraphale to see the anger bristling there. “I need... I need to feel like I’m in control again. I need to remember myself that I can handle things. That what I do has an impact on the world around me. I really don’t want to ask you that, but... could you help me? Please?”

“Anything,” Crowley whispered, stretching a hand out of the covers to cup Aziraphale cheek, holding him closer. He pressed his forehead against Aziraphale’s temple, breathing him in. “Anything you need, angel.”

He meant it, he knew he meant it, and Aziraphale knew it too. Aziraphale’s breath was trembling in a way that reminded Crowley of tears as he held Crowley close, but his face was dry, when Crowley took a peek. His eyes were shining, though, bright and vulnerable and impossibly dear. Crowley framed that well-loved face between his palms and kissed both Aziraphale’s cheeks.

“What do you want me to do, angel?” he whispered, lips lingering on Aziraphale’s forehead. He was ready for any sort of strange request, and was more than a bit perplexed by what came out of Aziraphale’s mouth.

“Would you mind... kneeling for me, love?”

Crowley blinked at him.

“Is that it?” he asked, berating himself for putting once again his foot in his mouth when he saw Aziraphale recoil from him as though he’d been slapped.

“Forget it. It’s not... really, it’s not a big deal.”

Oh, no. Crowley had no intention of letting things go south when it took them so long to get there.

“Hey, no. Stop it.” He took more firmly hold of Aziraphale’s face, preventing him from looking away. “I asked because... well, because I thought you knew I would. I thought you knew I would _enjoy_ that, too. So, yeah, I’m a bit taken aback by you making such a fuss about it, as though you were asking for a great favour.”

Another split of a second, where Aziraphale seemed one step away from withdrawing instead of forging on. But then he deflated, staring at Crowley with a bit of a pout.

_Good_, Crowley thought. That looked much more like the Aziraphale he knew than the dejected, cowered man he’d glimpsed before.

“It’s different this time.”

“Why?” Crowley asked, genuinely confused, before understanding hit him like a lorry rolling down a slope. “Because it’s for you and not for me?”

Something flickered in Aziraphale’s face, something that Crowley realised with honest dismay looked a lot like _shame_.

“Could we just... could we just go back to watching the telly?” Aziraphale almost pleaded, a hunted look in his eyes. “This is just... it’s just silly. Forget I ever asked.”

“It’s not silly,” Crowley pressed on, because that was his window and he knew that there might not be another one ever again. “It’s something you want, and it’s something I want to give you. Why should you be the only one allowed to take care of your partner? Do you think that I’m not capable of it? That I don’t want it?”

The words hurt a little coming out of his mouth, and Crowley realised that he was speaking a bit more truth than he’d liked. But he’d started, and he wasn’t going to stop now.

“No, darling, of course not,” Aziraphale rushed to assure him. “It’s just... It’s silly.”

“It’s not,” Crowley repeated, “and I don’t understand why you think it should be. You don’t think you deserve to get what you want?”

Aziraphale sighed, brows knitted together in a frown.

“Of course not, darling. You know me. I’m not exactly the abstinent sort.”

“What is it, then? You can’t show weakness, is that it? Do you think you’ll lose my respect if you don’t project yourself as a strong, competent Dominant at all times?”

Something shifted in Aziraphale’s eyes. Not there yet, but Crowley was getting closer.

“I told you about my past. If you were going to lose respect for me as a Dominant, you would’ve done it already.”

Which wasn’t a no, not exactly. But Crowley had already guessed that Aziraphale didn’t like much showing his tender underbelly, and who did, anyway? After that talk they’d had in the park about Aziraphale’s past lovers, it would take more than a bit of insecurity for Aziraphale to feel like he was failing Crowley.

Which brought them to the one item on Crowley’s mental list they hadn’t broached yet. The one that Crowley always handled like he was treading on broken glass.

“Look,” he sighed, pressing his forehead against Aziraphale’s, “you can feel about your family the way you want. You told me that you don’t need my approval to deal with them, and I still don’t like it, but you’re right. I won’t let you feel guilty for wanting my help, though. I don’t give a fuck if you feel like you shouldn’t need it. If I can help you feeling a bit better, I want to.”

He could feel Aziraphale’s choppy breaths on his lips, the tight grip of those stocky hands on his shoulders. Aziraphale was keeping himself unnaturally still, as though he feared he’d start shaking if he let go.

“Crowley...”

Crowley shushed him with a kiss. He doubted Aziraphale would or could say anything that wasn’t a barefaced denial by then, and he would not stand for it.

“No need for grand speeches, angel,” he murmured against his lips. “If you want me to kneel, I’ll kneel. As simple as that.” Another kiss, long and chaste and ever so soft. “Do you want me to?”

A silence, heavy and impossibly long.

“...yes. Please.”

Crowley pressed another kiss to those lips, something impossibly warm blooming in his chest.

“Alright.” He slowly pulled the blanket away, then stood on slightly numb legs, stretching them a little as he stepped to the telly and turned it off. He was already shrugging Aziraphale’s robe off his bare shoulders when he stopped. “Do you want me to take everything off?”

Aziraphale shrugged, but there was naked hunger in his eyes. They looked still too bright, but he seemed a bit more in control now, as though taking the final leap had given him some sort of clarity. There was colour high in his cheeks, though, and a bit of a determined grimace on his lips. He looked uncomfortable, all in all, but not dejected, not cowered, not so intolerably _small_.

“Anything you like, darling. You can keep your pants, if you like.”

That was new. Crowley arched a brow, slowly realising that things weren’t exactly headed in the direction he’d taken for granted.

It had never quite occurred to Crowley that their play could be anything but sexual, even if he’d had more than enough proof that he definitely could. He remembered in stark details curling up against Aziraphale’s side, a hand on his own throat, and earlier still, when he’d spectacularly broken down and Aziraphale had held him naked in his arms and comforted him. He was a bit slow, wasn’t he. But he could learn.

He dropped the dressing gown onto the couch and waited for Aziraphale to place a pillow between his feet, before slowly sinking down to his knees. A familiar heat bristled under his skin at the feeling of being surrounded so thoroughly by Aziraphale, encased by his legs, his body keeping the world at bay. He smelt like his favourite fabric softener, but there was a hint of something darker intermingled with it, the scent of his skin. It was comforting, just like the warmth of his body, and Crowley allowed himself to bask in it, slowly letting go of everything that wasn’t that moment, the feeling of his own body carefully folded at this man’s feet, the soft cushion under his knees. He glanced up, and let himself believe that the world started and ended within the boundaries of there and now.

Aziraphale was looking down at him with something akin to bristling adoration in his eyes, and Crowley smiled as a soft hand gently cupped his cheek.

“My precious Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, gently guiding Crowley to lean onto him, face pressed against Aziraphale’s sturdy thigh. Crowley sighed at the touch, settling between Aziraphale’s spread legs and gradually letting go.

Time seemed to trickle by slowly, as Crowley let his mind drift. He was a bit too alert to reach that sort of dazed haziness he sometimes hit when Aziraphale played with him, but kneeling mostly naked at his feet was relaxing him in a way that nearly nothing else could. He could feel his body grow heavy, lax, his breathing deepen. There was little warmth to spare in the flat, despite Aziraphale’s rickety heating system’s best efforts, but Crowley wasn’t particularly cold. He was fenced in by Aziraphale’s calves and held upright by his strong thighs, and the man was giving out heat like a furnace. He felt safe, and warm, and cared for, and at peace. He felt almost sleepy, even if he wasn’t, not really. He felt loved, utterly and almost violently, and there was a mad sort of joy laced tightly to that thought.

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that, the motion of Aziraphale’s hand sifting through his hair impossibly soothing. It was such a tender touch, slow and through and bristling with affection, and the only thing Crowley could do was allowing the warmth of those gentle caresses to reach him deep and deeper still. Then Aziraphale started to stir, a restless sort of shuffling, and when Crowley opened heavy eyes he realised that Aziraphale was hard, the shape of his erection tenting the crotch of his pressed trousers obscenely. Crowley stared at Aziraphale stiff cock for a long moment (possibly longer than strictly necessary), before slowly glancing up.

There was a lovely flush spreading from Aziraphale’s neck up to his cheeks, and a gleam on his plump lips, as though he’d been worrying at them with his tongue and teeth. He looked fully, painfully aroused, even as he tried rather ineffectually to hide it, and breathtakingly beautiful.

He seemed to deflate a little, as he realised that Crowley’s eyes were fixed on him. He smiled down at Crowley with impossible tenderness, pushing away a wayward strand of hair from Crowley’s forehead and then stroking Crowley’s cheek with the back of his fingers.

“Hello, love,” he murmured, so fondly that Crowley felt the heat of that impossible tenderness deep in his bones. “How are you feeling?”

“’m good,” Crowley mumbled, struggling a little to get the words out. “_Very_ good. ‘twas... eh. Strangely relaxing.”

A low chuckle.

“I’m glad.”

Crowley turned just enough to place a lazy kiss on the hand gently stroking his cheek, landing it on the knuckles.

“And you? Feeling any better, angel?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale murmured, ever so softly. “I do.”

“Good. ‘s good.” A beat, as Crowley threw a rather pointed look at Aziraphale’s erection. “You’re hard.”

Aziraphale hummed, scratching Crowley’s nape in a way that he felt to his toes.

“I’ve been for a while. Nothing for you to worry about.”

Crowley rubbed his cheek against the soft corduroy of Aziraphale’s trousers, looking up at him in a way that he hoped would look fetching, instead of still vaguely out of it.

“What if I’d like to?”

The moment seemed to stretch, as Aziraphale stared at Crowley with wide eyes. Crowley would not press, if Aziraphale preferred to keep things relatively not sexual, but he couldn’t deny he’d be more than happy to get his hands on that lovely cock. He’d always loved giving heads, and Aziraphale had one of the loveliest pricks he’d ever seen. But it was the thought of bringing him off, of giving him that sort of peace, of release, that was roiling under his skin. He wanted to give Aziraphale pleasure in a way that was almost painful.

Something of all that seemed to filter through, since Aziraphale’s face softened, his hand in Crowley’s hair stilled.

“My sweet, darling boy,” he murmured, in a voice that could only be interpreted as permission. “So good to me.”

Crowley sighed deeply at that, a soft sort of sound, before placing his hands on Aziraphale’s thighs and pushing up on his knees. He stroked him up to the dip of his hips, then leant forward, using his grip on those strong thighs to prop himself up as he nuzzled into Aziraphale’s covered crotch. He loved the smell of him there, clean and dark and lovely, and allowed himself to linger, nuzzling at Aziraphale’s straining bulge and kissing him through his trousers as he avidly collected every sigh and gasp tumbling down from above.

There was something languid, lazy in the way he was moving, oddly unrushed, and Crowley took his time to reach finally for Aziraphale’s belt, unbuckling it slowly. Aziraphale’s trousers and pants were loose enough that they didn’t need much pulling down for his cock to spring free, and soon Crowley’s hand was wrapped around the thick girth of it. It was just as hard and hot and lovely as he remembered, red and straining, a juicy vein pushing against the delicate foreskin pulled tight over the erect shaft.

“Oh, my sweet love, that’s it, oh, how wondrous you are,” Aziraphale groaned as Crowley’s palm wrapped around his cock, hips bucking slightly into Crowley’s grasp before he brought them back under control. He’d placed his hands over his own thighs, and Crowley watched them twitching a bit helplessly as he slowly pumped the lovely prick in his fist. It looked so lovely, the way the skin bunched up above the tight ring of his thumb and index and then smoothed out again over the swollen head, glistening with the very first beds of precome. It was the perfect place for a kiss, but Crowley wanted to look a bit more first, watch his fill, as he took in the smattering of white curls framing that glorious cock, the way the pinkish flush on Aziraphale’s neck had turned bright red, the way his shiny lips were slightly parted as gasps and groans tumbled out of them.

The noise turned just a bit louder, as Crowley finally took the swollen head in. It felt heavenly against his tongue, hard and smooth, its flavour exploding on his taste buds salty and wonderful. Crowley swirled his tongue around it, teasing the sensitive strip under the crown as he slowly worked his way down the shaft. He kept it shallow, at first, using his fist to stimulate what he wasn’t sucking into his mouth, but eventually he was swallowing Aziraphale’s whole, gag reflex tamed into submission as the thick head hit the back of his throat. The babbling praises stuttering their way out of Aziraphale’s lips made him shiver, but Crowley’s focus didn’t waver, trained as it was on the single-minded purpose of giving Aziraphale’s the best kind of pleasure he could.

Crowley was busy setting up a slow but thorough rhythm when he felt the touch of gentle fingers on his face, tracing the hollows of his cheeks as he sucked on the shaft, the place where his lips were wrapped around its girth as he teased the swollen head. Crowley cracked open eyes he didn’t remember to have closed, swept away as he was in the simple pleasure of working Aziraphale’s cock, and looked up, meeting gentle blue eyes shining bright over hot-red cheeks.

“Look at you, my delicious, wonderful boy,” Aziraphale groaned, pushing the same stubborn strand of hair away from Crowley’s eyes. “How good you are, taking me so deep. I love you so, darling.”

The words hit Crowley low, like a punch. He should’ve grown used to them by now, shouldn’t he? And yet.

He tried to convey just as much feeling with his eyes, as he slowly swallowed Aziraphale down to the root. Aziraphale sighed, hands twitching were they lay, delicately intertwined to Crowley’s hair but severely kept in check–no pulling and no pushing. Crowley could’ve got rid of them with barely a flick of his head, so light was the pressure.

That didn’t sit well with him. It didn’t sit well with him at all.

He pulled up slowly, cradling Aziraphale’s straining cock in his fist as he moved his jaw slightly to ease the strain. He licked his lips, spit-slick and tasting like Aziraphale.

“You can hold on to me, angel,” he said, voice a bit rough from his throat being thoroughly used, and he realised as the words left his mouth that he meant that in more than one way. Something shifted in Aziraphale’s eyes, and Crowley knew that Aziraphale had heard the hidden meaning, too.

“Of course, love,” he said, low and breathless and heartbreakingly tender, as he woven his fingers tight into Crowley’s hair and led him down ever so gently. “Thank you.”

Crowley felt the pull into his spine, the tip of his nose, his toes, and allowed Aziraphale to guide his head back to that lovely cock. He let Aziraphale set a rhythm, thinking only about following his lead, keeping the suction steady, working the shaft with his tongue, until Aziraphale’s gasping breaths became erratic and his body started to shudder in the tight grasp of Crowley’s hands, placed over the top of those sturdy thighs.

“I’m right on the edge, love,” Aziraphale warned him between his teeth, groans tumbling out of his lips as his hips finally broke free of his steely control and nudged Aziraphale’s cock just a bit deeper into Crowley’s throat before he came with a drawn-out moan. Crowley sucked hard around the throbbing flesh, keeping up the quick bobbing of his head in a single-minded quest to milk every last dredge of his orgasm out of Aziraphale’s twitching body. He even managed to catch a spurt of come right on his tongue, and hummed with satisfaction at being able to taste it. It was bitter and dark, but there was something to it that Crowley loved, some primordial tie to sex that pulled a string buried deep into his flesh.

Eventually it became too much, and Aziraphale gently pulled Crowley off his spent cock. Crowley cradled it in his hand as he let it slip out of his mouth, gently laying it on top of Aziraphale’s bollocks instead of letting it slap back into place.

The smile on Aziraphale’s face was blinding as he stroked Crowley’s cheek.

“My best boy, so lovely,” he gasped, struggling to normalise his breath. Crowley nuzzled and kissed the palm of the hand that was caressing him and then went back to work, tenderly pulling Aziraphale’s boxers back in place and then buttoning up his trousers and buckling his belt. Then Crowley got up on his feet, stumbling a little, which forced him to take stock of his body. He was half-hard, which was expected, really, after handling that glorious cock, but most of all he was freezing. He was also cramping a little from the kneeling position he’d held for who knew how long.

The touch of Aziraphale’s gentle hand against his thigh drew his attention. He looked down, catching Aziraphale staring at his half-hard cock with eyes a bit too hazy to be properly hungry, but close enough.

“Let me, darling,” he murmured, trying to reel him in. Crowley let him with a laughter, taking the two steps needed to straddle his leg from his standing position, but when Aziraphale tried to go for his pants he caught his hands instead.

“Later, angel,” he laughed, kissing them both before picking up the pillow between Aziraphale’s feet and thrusting it in his lap. “I’m freezing now.”

Aziraphale chuckled in reply, sticking the cushion behind his back as Crowley slipped back into Aziraphale’s robe.

“’s ok if I turned the telly on?” he asked, belting the ugly thing around his waist and feeling immediately better. He would probably need a moment to approach _warm_, but that was definitely an improvement.

“Of course, love,” Aziraphale answered, waiting for Crowley to fiddle with the telly before inviting him closer with open arms. “Come here, I’ll keep you warm.”

Crowley didn’t need to be told twice. He was back on the couch in a heartbeat, curled up against Aziraphale’s side, while Aziraphale fussed about making sure that he was wrapped into the blanket as tightly as possible. He didn’t settle until he was satisfied, and Crowley drank all that attention like a starving man.

The day rolled lazily by. The channel Crowley had managed to find on was obscure enough to offer soaps from the early seventies to its (probably spare) viewers on a Saturday afternoon, full of drama and tension and the obligatory surprise kid. Aziraphale, who seemed a bit more settled, went back to his book, a battered leather-bound copy of _Doctor Zhivago_ whose plot Crowley remembered vaguely from the sixties movie. He looked rather engrossed in his read, so Crowley let him be, disturbing him only when his cramped limbs decided to act up and prompted Crowley to turn the other side and stretch them along the couch, pressing his back against Aziraphale’s side and part of his chest. Aziraphale waited for Crowley to be comfortable, then kissed the top of his head, slung his arm across Crowley’s front and went back to reading.

Eventually, the soap turned out to be too boring for Crowley to follow. He was feeling a bit restless, charged up ever so slightly, now that he was warm again. As the shadows projected in the room lengthened, he started to be more and more aware of Aziraphale’s proximity, the sturdiness of his body, and the fact that he hadn’t got off since that morning–which really _shouldn’t_ have been an issue, since he wasn’t twenty anymore, but his sexual drive had always been a bit on the high side, and how could he not respond, when Aziraphale was so close? It would take a much more determined man than Crowley, and surely one way less horny. Plus, he’d been blowing Aziraphale’s gorgeous cock not an hour before. It was a miracle his body had waited that long, honestly.

His wriggling about, of course, was bound to be noted. Crowley was still chewing on all of that as he felt Aziraphale nuzzled into his hair, his hand squeeze Crowley’s shoulder.

“Is everything all right, love?” he murmured, kissing the crown of Crowley head. “Are you hungry?”

Crowley thought about it. Well, that too, to be honest. But first things first.

He tilted his head slightly, catching Aziraphale’s eyes, as he pried that steady hand off his shoulder and wrapped it about his throat. The simple weight and warmth of it against his skin made him shiver, stomach swooping slightly as his cock, which had been rather uncertain so far, twitched back to life.

Crowley didn’t need to be particularly well versed in reading Aziraphale’s face to see how his eyes instantly darkened at the gesture, but he was, and the hunger bristling there was impossible to miss.

“Oh,” Aziraphale just said, as his hand tightened a fraction around Crowley’s throat, making him gasp. “I see.”

Crowley waited with bathed breath as Aziraphale carefully closed his book, using an embossed strip of leather to mark the place, before settling it onto his desk. Crowley swallowed thickly as he felt Aziraphale use his grip on Crowley’s throat to tilt him back ever so slightly, pillowing Crowley’s head on his other arm, bent at the elbow, as he kissed him. He felt deliciously vulnerable like that, one step away from falling backwards if not for Aziraphale’s grip, and held ever so tenderly in his arms. He let Aziraphale kiss his lips to his heart’s content, and groaned softly at the first touch of Aziraphale’s tongue. Aziraphale took his time to tease his lips before pushing in, deepening the kiss with slow, through slides of his tongue.

Crowley was feeling light-headed and impossibly turned on by the time Aziraphale pulled away, turning fully towards Crowley to press his chest against Crowley’s back and keep him upright as his right hand slowly pushed the folds of the blanket aside. His left hand was still wrapped around Crowley’s throat, and Crowley allowed his mind to drift a little in the feeling of being held still, cradled close, and kept safe. There was an impossible thrill in being touched like that, which hit Crowley low and deep every single time.

“My gorgeous love, so deliciously vulnerable in my arms,” Aziraphale whispered into his ear, as he pushed the blanket out of the way and went to work on the belt of the dressing gown. It was tied up so loosely that it took Aziraphale barely a moment to undo the knot, pulling it open. Then his hand was trailing down Crowley’s chest, stopping here and there to sink his fingers into Crowley’s thick chest hairs, tweak a nipple, play with his belly button. Every touch turned Crowley’s blazing arousal up a notch, and he gasped aloud as Aziraphale’s hand cupped his stiffening cock.

He couldn’t help but look down, taking in the sight of Aziraphale’s covered arm stretched alongside his naked chest, his pale hand a stark contrast against the background of Crowley’s black briefs. He liked that pair, he liked the way they stretched around his thighs and hugged his arse and more importantly showcased his cock in a nice handful, even if they did require some adjusting when worn under his tightest jeans. As it was, they were the perfect underwear to be fondled in, as Aziraphale gently palmed and squeezed the bulge in his hand.

“Fuck, angel, yes,” Crowley hissed, hips bucking into the touch, back arching against Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale shushed him tenderly, kissing his temple as he fondled Crowley until he was fully hard. Then he tried to worm his hand under Crowley’s pants, only to be stopped by a wheezing, breathless laugh.

“Careful angel,” he grinned, tilting his head up until he caught sight of Aziraphale’s smiling, flushed face. “I’m running low on clean clothes.”

That pulled a snort out of Aziraphale’s throat, and also had the unfortunate side effect to loosen his grip on Crowley’s hard cock.

“Then you’d better get them out of harm’s way, love,” he purred, waiting for Crowley to catch up with his meaning and shove those pesky pants out of the way. Then his hand was wrapped around Crowley’s bare prick, squeezing him just right, and Crowley arched his back with a groan, pressing up against the hand Aziraphale had kept wrapped around his throat. The two points of pressure were impossibly lovely, and Crowley shuddered in Aziraphale’s arms, gasping and groaning in bitten-off encouragements as Aziraphale started to stroke him in earnest, as though he knew how badly he was aching.

“Look at you, my darling love, so wound up already,” Aziraphale was whispering into his ear, the subtle call of his voice drowning the chattering coming from the telly. “You can’t hold on for much longer, can you? My selfless darling, waiting for so long. I’ll take care of you, now.”

Crowley gasped at the pointed tenderness ringing in that voice, chest heaving as he gulped in air in gasps. He felt almost light-headed as his orgasm was expertly pulled out of him, Aziraphale’s hand squeezing just under the head, twisting in the upstroke the way Crowley loved best, and soon he was a trembling wretch in Aziraphale’s arms, clawing at the arm resting across his upper chest and the knee just behind his rump as he groaned and heaved through his climax. Aziraphale had caught most of it in his fist, and directed whatever had leaked out towards Crowley’s chest, but he barely felt the warm come hit his bare skin, pleasure muddling his thoughts as he shook pitifully until Aziraphale took mercy on him and allowed his spent cock to lie on his thigh.

“There you are, sweetheart,” Aziraphale murmured, holding him and kissing the crown of his head through the aftershocks. “I have you, love. You’ve been so wonderful, letting go so beautifully for me. My stunning darling. My perfect boy.”

Crowley whined at that delicious praise, tingling through his bloodstream like electricity. It was way too soon for that. It took him a long moment to settle, and he basked in Aziraphale’s warm, tender touch as he came down. Aziraphale’s hand was still wrapped around his throat as he cleaned Crowley up with a napkin, and Crowley slumped into his arms, warm and lazy and safe. He grumbled a little in displeasure as Aziraphale carefully laid him down to get up and fetch a washcloth, and was dismayed to find himself alone in the nosy room (since Aziraphale’s absence had brought back in the forefront of his mind the droning coming from the telly), but it wasn’t for long, and the feeling of being tended to more than made up for it. Then Aziraphale was pulling up Crowley’s pants and belting the robe, and after disposing of the dirty washcloth he was back on the couch, pulling Crowley into his lap and wrapping him tightly into the blanket before cradling him close.

Crowley relaxed into Aziraphale’s tender grasp, pressing his forehead against that soft cheek and playing with his curls as he breathed him in. Aziraphale hummed his approval, hands gently stroking Crowley’s arm and legs through the layers of fleece, the back of his fingers gently brushing the underside of Crowley’s jaw.

They stayed like that until it was almost too dark to see, the telly the only source of light in the room. Aziraphale pulled back just enough to kiss Crowley’s forehead, the bridge of his nose, his lips.

“So, what about supper, love?” he murmured between kisses.

Crowley stirred, cracking an eye open.

“Is already late enough for supper?” he grumbled, which prompted Aziraphale to get up and turn on the lights to check the time. Crowley regretted opening his mouth something fierce as the soft lights hit his poor eyes.

“Well, it’s late enough for afternoon tea,” Aziraphale apprised him, before ambling back to the couch and kissing him again. “I’m starving, love. Will you be all right to stay here while I get something ready?”

Crowley knew very well what Aziraphale meant. He took a moment to check in on himself, but he hadn’t actually dived too deep into that floating space Aziraphale sent him to sometimes.

“I’m fine, angel,” he answered, if a bit gruffly. “I could come and help you.”

“You stay here and laze about, my dear boy,” Aziraphale said, pulling away with a last lingering kiss. “You deserve some rest. You were so wonderful today.”

That unabashed praise, disconnected from sex, took him a bit by surprise. He was dismayed to find himself flustered by Aziraphale’s sweet words, and waved him away.

“’s nothing, angel,” he grumbled, “now go before you drop dead from hunger.”

It was a bit brusque, even for him, but Aziraphale simply chuckled to himself as he left.

Dinner was a quiet affair. They nibbled on a cold plate of cheese and meat cuts and toasted bread, topped off with the chocolate cake they had never got around to eating the day before. They chattered about nothing at all until well into the evening, then took a bottle of sparkling white wine from the fridge and retired to the couch. Crowley thought about turning the telly on again, but he was a bit fed up with the only channel the decrepit thing seemed to be able to pick up, and they could do with some quiet time. Aziraphale had turned a bit reserved again during dinner, and the wine was making him obviously maudlin. He knew, just as Crowley knew, that their time together was reaching its end, and there would be no sweet little lunches together through the following week.

“Will you stay the night, love?” Aziraphale murmured, cuddling Crowley close and pressing kisses to his hair. Crowley hid his face in Aziraphale’s neck and allowed the gentle touch of those stocky hands against his back to soak into his skin, even through the robe.

“Sure thing, angel.”

They didn’t talk much, simply sipping at their wine and enjoying each other company. Aziraphale tried his best to strike up a conversation a few times, but they were very obviously polite attempts only for Crowley’s benefit. Crowley had never care much for politeness, and he could be quiet, if that was what Aziraphale needed. Besides, he’d never been much for blabbering about when the mood wasn’t right. He did try for Aziraphale, but his efforts didn’t amount to much.

“I’m sorry, love. I don’t seem to be very chatty tonight,” Aziraphale sighed, after his fifth attempt at starting a conversation had fallen flat. Crowley picked one of Aziraphale’s hands and brought it to his lips, before cradling it in his palms.

“’s ok, angel,” he murmured, curling up more tightly around him and nuzzling into his cheek. “I don’t mind the silence. Do you?”

A short, painful pause, before Aziraphale released all the tension with a sigh.

“I guess I don’t either.”

That settled, they willed away the time revelling in each other’s presence, with lazy touches and soft kisses. There was a sort of agonising heartbreak lingering in the air, so thick Crowley could almost choke in it. He tried to hold it at bay with his hands and his lips, but it was there, a roiling shame that seemed to pour out of Aziraphale in waves.

It hit Crowley, then. Aziraphale knew. It didn’t matter what he obstinately kept saying. He knew that his family was deliberately cruel to him. Deep down, he’d always known. Just as he knew what it was to come, which sort of Christmas he was going to have. He knew that he didn’t really want to go, that he didn’t want to see his family, and the guilt for that simple, irrefutable feeling that he couldn’t control or change in any way was burning through him like wildfire.

Crowley was sharing Aziraphale’s heartbreak, as he cradled that cherished face between his palms and pressed painfully tender kisses to those plump limps.

“Let’s go to bed,” he whispered, even though it wasn’t very late. Aziraphale didn’t protest, and soon they were curled up under the covers, tightly entwined. Crowley had forego his vest, since the only one he had with him was soaked with sweated alcohol and frankly disgusting, and pressed against Aziraphale’s chest to soak up his body heat. They kissed for a while, deep and lingering, as Aziraphale’s hands mapped Crowley’s naked chest and back and Crowley partially unbuttoned Aziraphale’s pyjama top to play with his nipples. It was sweet and just the right side of heady, but it didn’t lead to anything but half-hard cocks and some lazy grinding. They were both rather sated, and the mood wasn’t right.

Eventually Aziraphale sighed against Crowley’s forehead, their lazy fondling turning into a less charged sort of touch.

“I’m sorry, darling,” he murmured, nuzzling into his hair. “I promised I wouldn’t let you go home until you were thoroughly seen to, but...”

“’s ok, angel,” Crowley whispered back, from the crook of Aziraphale’s neck. “We’ll be together for four days at New Year’s. I’m sure you’ll find the time to fuck me at some point.”

Aziraphale snorted, and Crowley was rewarded with a string of lingering kisses before they finally drifted off.

The mood was still sombre, the morning after. Aziraphale’s shift wouldn’t start before nine, and the alarm had been set up early enough for them to get a shower and for Crowley to use the very last of Aziraphale’s supplies to cook a nice breakfast before leaving the flat. Aziraphale was absurdly apologetic for having forced Crowley to wake up before seven on a Sunday morning, but Crowley only scoffed at that and kissed Aziraphale’s worries away. He drove him to work nearly fast enough for Aziraphale to get a heart attack, since they had taken a bit longer than necessary to get ready, but when he pulled over by the library, Aziraphale didn’t seem in much of a rush to get out. His hand was soft as he pressed it against Crowley’s, and Crowley would’ve kissed him one last time if they hadn’t been in public (and in front of Aziraphale’s workplace). As it was, Crowley merely smiled at him, drinking in how bright he looked even through the sunglasses.

“It’s time to leave, I guess,” Aziraphale sighed, squeezing Crowley’s hand one last time before slipping away. “Thank you, Crowley. For everything. It was... so very lovely, this weekend with you.”

“Don’t mention it, angel,” Crowley murmured, watching with helpless longing as Aziraphale opened the door and made to climb out. “Angel...”

“Yes?”

Crowley stared at him, halfway out of his car, and watching Crowley with the earnest eyes Crowley had ever seen.

“Will you be careful?” he blurted out, something cracking a little painfully in his chest. How could he ask this sweet man not to allow himself to be abused by the same family he insisted was not abusive at all? He looked away, not wanting to see which vulnerable face Aziraphale was wearing like a flag for everyone to aim to.

“Just... be careful.”

Crowley had expected some sort of blithe answer, perhaps a scoffing remark that he was going to the country, whatever could possibly happen to him?, but was met with silence, instead. He dared look up, and saw Aziraphale turning away with something a bit sad and a bit resigned hanging over his face like a curtain.

“I will try my best, darling,” Aziraphale said, low and almost too quiet to be heard, before climbing out of the car in one swift move. “Thank you for the ride, my dear. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Then the door was closed gently behind him, and Aziraphale was gone. Crowley ignored the chaos of London traffic on a sunny Sunday morning and lingered by the pavement until Aziraphale had disappeared beyond the glass doors.


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely people <3  
I’m truly sorry it took me so long to update (and to answer most of your comments), but I had to take a break from the fandom for a short while. Nothing serious, I just hit a block and I found myself in need of some time off. I’m back now, and I’ll try to keep you well fed for the foreseeable future, but I’ll probably slow down a little with the updates. I’ll do my outmost to post once every two weeks, but my muse is a little tired I think.  
I would like to thank you all for your support, your kindness, and in general the love you’ve been pouring over this story of mine. It’s because of you that I bounced back from my funk so quickly (I know, I’ve been away for almost two months, but I thought I would need twice as much). I just couldn’t stand the idea of leaving you hanging for too long, especially with how precious you all have been in the comments. It might take me a little while, but I’ll give you a proper ending for this story if it kills me.  
On related news, REFL has just celebrated its first birthday, which is… a little unsettling, but not particularly remarkable. I’m used to taking years to finish a story. It’s the 300k+ word count that I keep finding pretty shocking. We are nearing the end, but I’m still not entirely sure I’ll manage to reach it before we hit the 40th chapter or the 400k+ words. We’ll see.  
As usual, a particularly heartfelt (and long overdue) thank you to [uponwhatgrounds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uponwhatgrounds/pseuds/uponwhatgrounds) for gifting me with yet another [gorgeous piece](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26406721/chapters/64799179). I’m sorry it took me so long to give it the visibility it deserves, but rest assured that I loved it just as much as the others. Your kindness is astonishing.  
I hope you’ll like the chapter <3

There was something final in the vanishing of Aziraphale’s retreating figure, like the undeniable end of something for which Crowley had no name. It lingered for a long moment under Crowley’s skin, that sense of dread, as he stared through the rolled-up window of his car at the closed doors. They looked forbidding in the low light filtering through the thick clouds, blanketing a heavy sky.

Their weekend together had come to an end, that much was clear. And the carefully silenced awareness that Aziraphale would be seeing his family again very soon had coalesced in Crowley’s mind into something very loud and unbearably real, like a scream at the edge of his consciousness.

He gripped the wheel a bit tighter, holding onto the familiar, reassuring feeling of supple leather against bare skin. He knew every bump, every irregularity in the workmanship of his car. There was a deep comfort in that knowledge, and in the definite awareness that he got to keep her, unlike many people in his life. Right then, it felt reassuring to know that he could definitely keep her safe, in a way that Aziraphale wouldn’t allow.

Rationally, he was well aware that Aziraphale wouldn’t be in any physical danger while they were apart. He didn’t really think that Aziraphale’s siblings would have yet another esoteric outburst, and he was fairly certain that, even if they had, Aziraphale wouldn’t simply allow them a repeated performance. On the other hand, Crowley knew first hand just how horrible Aziraphale’s family could be, and how deeply they could wound him without ever touching him.

He hated that thought, the implicit insidiousness of that kind of damage. There was nothing he could do about it, and he hated feeling that helpless. Yes, he could stand by his side and offer solace whenever required, but it ate at him not being able to shield Aziraphale from the pain.

Crowley sighed, finally putting the car into gear and pulling away from the pavement. It didn’t matter how badly he wanted to–Aziraphale’s life was his own, and he had a right to sort out his problems the way he saw fit. That didn’t mean that Crowley couldn’t dream about punching Gabriel’s smarmy face into another dimension, though.

He was mulling over that thought in great and pleasant details as he slowly made his way through the traffic. It wasn’t that bad, at nine o’clock on a Sunday morning, but it was still central London. He ought to be thankful that most people were too busy sleeping the weekend away to bother the early birds already out and about. Especially when it was the Sunday before Christmas, and every single Londoner had remembered with disgraceful delay that they didn’t have anything to gift their loved ones with.

It dawned on Crowley, then, that he was one of those Londoners. He couldn’t remember the last time Christmas had ever been anything but stale carols and Hallmark movies to him, even less having someone he cared about enough to bother thinking up a present to make them happy, but it was different now. He hadn’t many friends left, and he ought to start treating them right–beginning with Anathema, who had more than earned a gift for her part in all that mess. And the thought of doing something for Aziraphale, of pleasing him somehow, was enough to kindle a bristling sort of warmth into his chest, thrilling and soothing at the same time. He was already floating into a buzzing sort of haze, fantasising about welcoming a tired and dejected Aziraphale after his dreadful Christmas with something that would bring a smile to his wary face, when he drove to a nearby car park and fortified himself for a nice bout of shopping frenzy before the hungry masses would come rushing in.

By the time London’s busy streets were bustling with Christmas madness, Crowley had managed to get away with an antique-looking burnished brooch for Anathema and, after an agonising hour of dramatic indecision, a fancy pot with a built-in infuser in which Aziraphale could brew his tea. Aziraphale was a purist only insofar as he didn’t have to put too much effort into it, and while he insisted on the best blends when they went out, he had never really moved on from tea bags at home. Crowley had mulled over a few other ideas, but clothes seemed a bit too personal so early in their relationship (which did sound a bit ridiculous considering that Aziraphale had bought him _toys_), and he had absolutely no clue about which book (if any) Aziraphale missed from his collection but he’d like to have. The pot seemed a safe enough bet, and Crowley could always get fancy next Christmas.

(Crowley tried to fight the warmth rising unbidden into his chest at the thought of still being there in one year time, especially since it came with its own brand of panic, but he was still smiling and squirming like an absolute lunatic as he pulled into his car park.)

As he went through his gifts, later in the afternoon, he realised that he didn’t actually have anything to wrap them up with, which meant taking a short trip the day after to the store close to his workplace and spend his evening watching tutorials on YouTube and try to divine how on earth he was supposed to pack those things. It wasn’t that Crowley at almost forty years of age had never bought anyone a present (though it had been something of a few-and-far-between kind of situation), it was just that handing the gift as it was without much fuss was more his style. But for once in his life he wanted to put in some effort, for both Aziraphale and Anathema, and he’d be damned if he didn’t master the art of wrapping a piece of colourful paper around a blasted thing in a way that looked (_for shame!_) reasonably cute.

Aziraphale’s call came as Crowley was halfway through his pitiful attempt at gift-wrapping. He’d been looking forward to it, and he could barely keep the lid on his secret gift, lying half-wrapped in hideous Christmas paper on his desk. He hoped Aziraphale would be pleased, and the thought that he just might sent a thrill down Crowley’s spine. He would never grow tired of having Aziraphale’s delicious praises being poured into his ear.

The call was sweet, but disappointingly short. Aziraphale seemed just as happy to hear from him as Crowley was, but his mind was obviously elsewhere, and after some distracted chattering he sighed and said that he truly needed to start packing. He’d been at work for most of the day, and still hadn’t had a chance to sort through his stuff. His train was leaving Victoria Station rather early the day after, and it would surely not wait for him.

The thought of Aziraphale being _en route_ towards his horrible family soured Crowley’s Tuesday morning. Although he did get some satisfaction from having accomplished the difficult task of packing his gifts (not diminished in the slightest by the fact that they would be delivered a bit late because he could accept Christmas wrapping, but not being hung up on _dates_ of all things), Crowley couldn’t stop wondering how Aziraphale was, where he was, what he was thinking about.

He hoped Aziraphale would be thinking about him, of course, but he would understand if the poor man was too busy dreading his horrible family to spare more than a few moments for Crowley. He’d be in a sour mood, too, if he’d been forced to see Gabriel again. The name was enough to spark a few unwelcome memories of the blasted wedding, souring his day even further. Crowley suddenly couldn’t take a look around the office without finding something intolerably loathsome hiding in every corner, particularly lurking on his desolate desk.

It hit him, then, the realisation that he didn’t want to be there. It was truly an underwhelming sort of epiphany to have, and yet it seemed to Crowley as though he’d been waiting for years on end to reach exactly that point. He didn’t want to be there. And yet there he was, pushing the same papers around every day, like an obedient, lifeless little cog in the machine.

Crowley closed his eyes and counted up to ten, anger threatening to burst out of him in a scream. He didn’t know why he was so angry, but he was. He was furious, all of a sudden, and filled to the brim with a seething hatred for that place, as though every single dreadful feeling he’d pushed under in the past twenty years was clawing its way out.

Everything was exactly as it had always been, as he opened his eyes again. Bleak and dank and pointless. One of his colleagues was staring at him with an arched brow, obviously wondering what was going on with him, and as Crowley met his gaze he realised with a start that the man had the same dead, apathetic look in his eyes that Hastur used to have, all those years ago. The man’s gaze snapped away, and Crowley wondered with some sort of dazed confusion how it had been way easier for him to leave his family than his job.

He got a nice pizza for the evening, since it was Christmas Eve and he deserved some trash food for the occasion. He sat in front of the telly and pretended to watch a rerun of _The Nanny_, although he was quite obviously waiting by his phone for Aziraphale’s call. Time seemed to be stretching on and on as he waited, and he wondered why he always ended up that way.

He picked up almost immediately, when Aziraphale rang. One thing he was done with was to hide his eagerness, and he was rewarded with a voice that was almost painfully happy to hear from him.

“I was hoping to call you a little further into the evening, give you proper a Merry Christmas,” Aziraphale said, low and impossibly tender, “but I couldn’t wait that long. And my family will expect me to go to church with them, so I’m not entirely sure I’ll manage to sneak out and call you right on time.”

“You could always text me, you know,” Crowley teased, warmed to the bone by such regard. He curled up a bit tighter on his couch, cradling the phone to his ear. “I showed you how it works.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale huffed, “but you know how I feel about, well. _Texting_.”

He made the word sound almost dirty, and Crowley couldn’t help a snicker as they went on bantering for a while. Then Aziraphale told him that it was almost time to go, and Crowley remembered that he was supposed to ask if he got there all right.

(It wasn’t that he didn’t care, far from it, he just liked it better to pretend that Aziraphale wasn’t there at all, and for a short moment, as they poked at each other over the phone, he could imagine that Aziraphale was still at home, busy making himself some cocoa, instead of being left to the tender mercies of his family.)

Aziraphale’s voice was tight as he answered, and carefully guarded.

“The trip was long, but not particularly uncomfortable, and Mother had Mr. Young pick me up at the station.”

That ushered Crowley into dangerous territory. He fortified himself and went on.

“And how is the family?” he asked, a bit warily. The question was met with a thick silence, then a tired sigh.

“Pretty much the same as last month,” Aziraphale answered, in a clipped, uneasy tone. Every single alarm bell in Crowley’s head went off, but he had already found out in the worst possible way that he couldn’t just follow the voice in his head that was screaming at him to jump in his Bentley and drive Aziraphale home. He waited, and was even less reassured by what came out of Aziraphale’s mouth next. “I’m sorry, Crowley, but I don’t want to talk about that. I just... I’d really rather not.”

It took everything Crowley had to tamp down his reaction. That was bad news. He could feel it in his bones.

“As you wish, angel,” he answered, trying his very best to sound placating instead of testy. It would neither help the situation nor bring about any significant improvement to the sudden shift in the mood, which had taken a turn for the worse. There was an uneasiness ringing through the line that Crowley hated. It made him antsy, like an off-key note in a melody, and anxious to bring them back to the comfortable tranquillity he’d worryingly started to depend on.

Then Aziraphale sighed, a fragile, tired thing.

“I’m so very sorry I’m not there with you,” he said, lowly, as though it was a secret–and a shaming one at that. “This is not how I thought we would spend our first Christmas together.”

The dejection, the heartbreak in that voice were painfully familiar to Crowley. He hadn’t imagined either that he would hear them again so soon. He cradled the phone closer and thought frantically about something to say strong enough to break that uneasy spell.

“Oh, don’t worry about me, angel,” he drawled, “I’ll find a way to pass the time while you’re not here.”

His little quip was followed by a short silent spell, and Crowley realised quite belatedly that his mouth, going on autopilot, had instinctively painted that sentence in a much dirtier light than he’d planned. How typical of him. Deflection was his default reaction to awkward situations, after all, and he’d often found that nothing distracted quite as effectively as sex.

There was something bristling a little in Aziraphale’s quiet, guarded voice, a bit like electricity crackling right beneath the cool glass of a plasma globe.

“Is that so?”

Crowley felt a shiver trickle down his back. He was trampling well-trod territory now, and yet there was something not quite familiar in that exchange, like considering a shortcut he’d never really taken before. There were several ways that particular sort of conversation could be carried forward, and Aziraphale’s meticulously neutral tone quite obviously meant that such decision was in Crowley’s hands.

Crowley licked his lips. He felt charged up, like a battery, heart thumping in his chest, goosebumps pebbling his skin in electric anticipation. He stroked for a moment an old and well-worn fantasy of his about Aziraphale’s honeyed voice talking him through his climax, and felt his cock twitch in agreement in his pants. But as tantalising as that was, almost irresistible, there was something else lurking those deep waters, a vague thought that was now coalescing into a proper idea. He wanted something that would last longer than an orgasm, something that could made him feel just a little as though Aziraphale was there with him for days on end even while miles away. And he wanted to show Aziraphale that he could play that game, too, that he was more than a passive partner taking whatever was offered. He knew that he didn’t need to, but there was a tiny part of him that was a bit tired of playing the role of the sheltered maiden. He was a grown man with a sizeable chunk of experience behind his back, not to mention quite a wicked imagination, and it was about time he showed some initiative.

He couldn’t help, however, the vaguely tentative note ringing in his gravelly voice as he spoke again.

“Unless you’d prefer me not to?”

That gained him another burst of thoughtful silence, short but lasting more than enough for Crowley to start wondering whether he’d come across like an awkward idiot and Aziraphale was simply looking for a way not to offend his sensibilities. Not that he was fretting, of course. Crowley didn’t fret.

“Are you offering, darling?” Aziraphale all but purred, after a small eternity. There was a tension running through his voice, like a shiver. “Do you want to be good for me?”

Crowley felt for a moment like he couldn’t breathe, the sharp edge of arousal slamming into him like a fist.

“Yes,” he croaked out, way more eager and honest than he’d meant to be. He _did_ want that, he realised, and quite a bit more than he’d imagined.

“All right, then,” Aziraphale hummed, low and thoughtful. “You are not to touch yourself until I’m back. No playing with that lovely cock of yours, your balls, your arse, your thighs. You are to abstain from any physical pleasure until I will give it to you myself. Are we clear?”

Crowley tried to swallow around the lump in his throat, but it was difficult. He could hear the savage thumping of his heart, feel the heat coming off his quivering flesh. He was hard in his pants, his silk robe bulging obscenely over his erection. Perhaps he’d been a little rash in his decision.

“Yes,” he rasped, shuddering too hard to add anything to that. He would never cease to be shocked to the core by Aziraphale enunciating filth in that prim Oxbridge accent of his. He was starting to suspect that that was the exact reason Aziraphale used that specific strategy so sparingly.

“My good boy, _best_ boy,” Aziraphale crooned, sending a ribbon of painful arousal directly to Crowley’s heavy, aching balls, “always trying so hard to please me. My perfect Crowley, my sweet darling.”

Crowley tried to stifle a groan at that, but it came out anyway. It seemed to please Aziraphale to no end.

“Oh, you’re hard already, aren’t you?” Aziraphale purred, sweet and pitiless. “Are you aching, sweetheart?”

Crowley could think of nothing to say but the truth.

“Yes.”

“Such a sensitive, lovely creature you are,” Aziraphale sighed, “so impossibly delicate. You react to the barest touch so exquisitely. Is your poor neglected cock trapped inside those cruelly tight jeans you enjoy so much wearing?”

Crowley closed his eyes. They were actually going there. And he wasn’t even allowed to touch himself to ease the tension.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to hold tight onto whatever scrap of control he could get his hands on.

“No,” he ground out, voice an unsteady jumble, “just a robe. And pants. Under the robe.”

“Tell me.”

Crowley pressed a hand to his mouth for a moment, since he couldn’t press it against his aching, twitching cock. He felt the cruel grasp of need deep to the root, and even deeper, clawing at his lower belly. He felt hot and feverish and uncomfortably damp, sweat beading onto his skin and making the silk cling to his body.

“There’s not much to tell. ‘s just a robe. Black silk. Black brief underneath. ‘s all.”

“Is the robe belted?”

“Sloppily.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale all but growled, “such a messy boy you are. Terrible at taking care of yourself, really. But you always try so hard for me. And how wonderful you are, how lovely, when you allow me to take care of you.”

_I wish you were here now, taking care of my prick_, Crowley almost blurted out, but he wasn’t too out of it to know that it would irreparably ruin the mood. And no matter how tortuous that sort of pleasure was, how pitiless the tease, he had no intention of stopping any time soon.

“_Angel_,” he gasped instead, a hand curled in a dead grip around the seatback of his couch and the other clutching the phone for dear life. He could feel his heartbeat in his cock, his balls. He pictured for a moment Aziraphale’s sweet, loving smile as he knelt between Crowley’s spread thighs and gently peeled away the lapels of his robe to reveal his hard prick pressing against the black cotton of his brief.

“Can you see the shape of your gorgeous erection through your clothes, darling?” Aziraphale purred, voice almost painfully fraught. Whatever he was doing to Crowley, he was doing it to himself too, but he at least was allowed to stroke his own cock, if he so chose. Crowley wondered vaguely if he was.

“Yes,” Crowley choked out. “’s tenting the robe. Are you touching yourself, angel?”

“No. But I am aroused, if that’s what you’re aiming at.” There was amusement in Aziraphale’s voice now, just a smidge, twined ever so tightly to the need and the fondness. Crowley could almost see his smile, carrying through the line like a sound. “Do you want me to?”

Crowley swallowed. He truly was an idiot with the survival instinct of a suicidal lemming, all in all.

“Yes.” A beat, as Crowley pulled in a ragged, shuddering breath. “Please. I want to hear you come.”

“How can I refuse, when you ask so sweetly?” Aziraphale purred, although he couldn’t quite hide how uneven his voice was, the tension bristling underneath. Crowley held still, trying to hear the rustle of clothes under the sound of Aziraphale’s shallow breaths. “I have myself in hand, now. It will be quite a trick not to make a mess of it. You are a wicked, wicked creature, tempting me so.”

“You have no idea how much I love your cock, angel,” Crowley blurted out, too turned on to keep in check what was tumbling out of his mouth. He didn’t think he’d been quite as hard in his entire life. His entire body was buzzing with it. “Don’t think I’ve forgot your promise. You owe me a thorough shag.”

“And you shall have it,” Aziraphale growled back, breath speeding up. Crowley could imagine him so clearly, lounging somewhere with his head tipped back, holding his phone with one hand while he stroked his thick, dark cock with the other. It would look so deliciously obscene, with its spongy head peaking out of his closed fist. “I will take care of you, darling. I will open you up ever so slowly, and I’ll give it to you, over and over. It will be your reward for being so good to me.”

Crowley closed his eyes, groaning aloud. He couldn’t help it. He could hear the ripple in Aziraphale’s voice, his breath coming faster and faster. Aziraphale would start panting soon, the delicious way he did when he was getting closer. He wasn’t playing with himself. He was working his cock to give Crowley what he wanted–the orgasm Crowley was aching to hear tumbling through the line. It was a startling, heady thought. Crowley felt almost high on frustrated arousal, wound up so tight with no outlet nor reprieve in sight.

“And what if I can’t?” Crowley gasped, shuddering through a wave of something between ache and pleasure so thick he feared for a moment he would come untouched on the spot. “What if I’m not good?”

“Oh, my sweet darling,” Aziraphale panted, “it’s all right if you can’t. I know you want to be good for me. I know you’ll try as hard as you can. That’s more than enough.”

Such impossible tenderness. Crowley felt almost like crying, and it should’ve been jarring, so wound up as he was, but it wasn’t. It felt like the next best option, if he couldn’t get down from his high in any other way. Not as good as an orgasm, but an outlet nevertheless.

“Angel,” he said, with a shuddering, broken voice, “_what_ if I can’t?”

A suspended, shuddering moment, shattered by Aziraphale’s heavy groan.

“Do you want to be punished, sweetheart? Is that what you want?”

Was it? Crowley didn’t know, but he remembered with a bone-deep shiver the dangerous spark in Aziraphale’s eyes as he asked Crowley the very same thing, a long time before.

“Will you?” Crowley ground out, barely aware of what was coming out of his mouth. “Punish me?”

“You will keep those wicked hands to yourself until I’m back,” Aziraphale growled, voice deep and shuddering the way it went when he was very, very close. “You will, or I’ll bend you over my knee and spank that delicious arse of yours until you remember that promises are not to be taken lightly.”

Crowley groaned again, high and desperate and shuddering, and as he heard the same sound ricocheting through the line he wondered with a spike of panic whether he’d come untouched in his pants, after all. His entire body was buzzing with such a deep-seated arousal that he had to look to be sure, but he was still hard, cock throbbing in his pants as he fought to process the storm of inputs coming from his electrified nerve-endings. He could hear Aziraphale panting through the line, and Crowley tried to get oxygen in his lungs in a deep, shivering breath, as he listened to him coming down from his orgasm. It felt violently intimate, breeding an almost intolerable tenderness in his chest. The need to touch him was almost as imperative as the need to get off, but he could do neither, and it felt as though that hunger would swallow him whole.

“My darling love,” Aziraphale gasped, after a moment. “Have you peaked?”

“No. No, I didn’t.”

“Such a wonderful boy,” Aziraphale crooned, sending another shiver down Crowley’s spine. “Will you be good for me, then?”

“Yes.” Crowley swallowed. “I’ll, I’ll try.”

“My brilliant Crowley, my best boy,” Aziraphale purred. “I’ll give you a reward when I’m back. I promise.”

“I love you,” Crowley nearly sobbed, too wound up and aching and needy to think about anything else. He felt almost dizzy, the throbbing in his prick gradually losing prominence in his mind. He tipped his head back and allowed his body to loosen up, chest expanding, muscles unclenching. He was trembling from head to foot, but it felt lovely, like a release of a sort that had nothing to do with orgasm.

“My sweet Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured. “I love you, too.”

They stayed like that a while longer, in silence, just listening to the other breathe. It felt calming in a way, comforting, almost as if Aziraphale was there with him, holding him close. Crowley allowed himself to be lulled in that rarefied peace until he heard a sigh coming from the other side of the line, shortly followed by Aziraphale’s soft voice.

“I can’t stay much longer, love,” Aziraphale said, obvious regret (and a touch of unhappiness) ringing in his voice. “But I’d like for you to take a hot bath and go straight to bed, now. You should get some sleep.”

“And miss Christmas?” Crowley drawled, still a bit too dazed to think about what was coming out of his mouth.

He felt the tension rise over the phone like a cable snapping tight.

“Of course,” Aziraphale said, voice low and stiff. “I forgot about that. I’m sorry, love.”

“’s ok,” Crowley mumbled, straightening himself up. “’twas good advice anyway. I’ll do that.”

“Such a darling boy,” Aziraphale said, but there was something off now, as though he was fighting to slip back into whatever state of mind he’d been unceremoniously kicked out of. “I’m very proud of you.”

Crowley blinked, uncertain on how to react to that. He felt unbalanced, as though Aziraphale’s odd mood had spread through the line. He couldn’t think of anything to say, so he just blurted out the first thing that came to his mind.

“Good night, angel,” he mumbled, uneasy and awkward. “And merry Christmas.”

“Yes. You too, sweetheart.” A break, long enough that Crowley almost _heard_ the unhappy grimace pressed upon Aziraphale’s soft lips. “Merry Christmas. Sleep tight.”

The line went dead, after that. Crowley curled up in a ball, cradling his phone while he waited for his cock to soften. He missed Aziraphale so keenly that he felt his absence like a physical agony, a desperate craving that he couldn’t quench in any way. He realised in a daze that he didn’t have any picture in his phone that could give him a little solace, nor vocal messages that he could replay. He felt bereft, alone. It was a maddening, rabid sorrow, and he curled up even tighter, shivering and trying to claw his way out from that violent mood swing that had hit him like a sledgehammer.

It dawned on him, then, that he was coming down from his high, and that was the first time he’d been doing it on his own. Aziraphale had always been there before, holding him close and feeding him tenderness while he calmed down. Aftercare, Aziraphale had called it, stressing time and time again how important it was. Crowley was starting to see the merit of it himself.

He knew he should’ve called Aziraphale. Even more keenly, he knew that Aziraphale would’ve wanted him to. He’d be more than cross to find out that Crowley had gone through a, what did he call it?, a drop on his own. But Crowley didn’t want to call him, not when he was with his family. He couldn’t stand the idea of his horrible siblings sharing in Crowley’s disgraceful lack of control, even if he knew that Aziraphale wasn’t going to breathe a single word. Hell, he knew that Aziraphale would probably drop everything and run home, if Crowley really needed him. Which was why he couldn’t call him. It wasn’t fair. And Aziraphale had stayed with him as long as he could, breathing with him, whispering just how much he loved him. Crowley just wasn’t used to not being held. Which was ridiculous, since he’d done swimmingly for a very long time without being held by anyone, not like that, until Aziraphale had came along. He could survive a few more days. And Aziraphale had told him what to do, after all.

It took Crowley some time to calm down enough to get up, but up he got. His erection had gone completely down by then, even as the rest of his body ached. He felt drained, tired in a way that he couldn’t rightly remember to have ever been. He felt numb, and cold. He was on autopilot as he padded to the bathroom, mechanically hanging his robe on a peg in the wall and slipping out of his briefs before stepping into the shower. Aziraphale had talked about a hot bath, but Crowley didn’t have a tub, and he guessed that it didn’t really matter. As it was, the hot water hitting his skin felt heavenly, and Crowley allowed his body to relax under the spray, washing the tension and confusion and heartbreak away. He washed himself carefully, the way he imagined Aziraphale would, tender and attentive, and tried to spend only the minimum amount of time necessary on his crotch. He’d never given that specific scenario much thought, but now that he was picturing Aziraphale with him, scrubbing him clean while exploring all the dark nooks and crannies of his body with those clever fingers, Crowley found himself aching with the obscene intimacy of it. He felt the silvery touch of arousal in his guts, and hurried on to something a little less titillating at the answering twitch of his neglected cock.

Aziraphale was obviously onto something about the hot bath, since Crowley felt markedly better stepping out than he had stepping in. He towelled the dampness off his hair, which he’d managed to keep mostly dry, and then moved downwards to his feet. Once done he hung the towel to dry and threw his briefs into the hamper, before crawling into bed. He still felt a bit off, drained and sad and wound up at the same time, and somewhat confused on top of that. His body was certainly confused, if not his mind, buzzing with some sort of misfiring energy he usually got rid of masturbating. But since that outlet wasn’t a possibility at the moment, Crowley could do nothing but suck it up, trying to quiet his body and his mind the best he could.

He toyed with the idea of calling Aziraphale, sharing his misery, and allowing himself to be taken care of ever so sweetly–toyed with the idea of being brought down gently, soothed through his jagged needs. He shuddered at the thought of having Aziraphale curled up around him, caressing ever so softly Crowley’s twitching cock and pressing kisses to his nape as he shushed him to sleep. He would be so delicate, and his touch such an exquisite torture.

_My sweet love, look at you, the state you’re in, and all for me. My best boy, my darling, my very own..._

Crowley was still awake, trying to calm himself down, when his phone chimed to life. It was midnight, according to the screen, and Crowley wasn’t surprised in the slightest to see Aziraphale’s name flashing just underneath.

** _Merry Christmas, darling._ **

Crowley smiled to himself. He knew that Aziraphale could text, that obstinate, stubborn man, if he only put his mind to it.

** _Back to you, angel._ **

It felt a bit easier falling asleep, after that.

* * *

Crowley started the following day in a strange, fractured mood. He was still wound up a little too tight after the night before, and woke up with an aching erection that he did his best to ignore. While he was pretty used to disregarding his emotional needs, denying his body what it needed was brand new territory, and Crowley wasn’t too sure he liked the experience. He was buzzing with pent-up energy, frustration piling up under his skins in maddening waves. He tried to distract himself with breakfast, but he wasn’t really hungry, and his cock seemed incapable of comprehending that it wouldn’t get to savour any joyride of any sort any time soon.

Come midmorning, his mood had turned foul. Crowley tried to work it out by shouting at his plants, but to no avail. He couldn’t concentrate on the telly, he couldn’t bear the thought of getting out of his flat, and could only thank any merciful God he knew that he’d get to stay home for two days, because he didn’t really think he could tolerate the office right then and there. His craving for Aziraphale had turned into a ravaging hunger, and Crowley felt half-crazed as he wandered through his flat, angry and needy and a little taken aback by the way his body was answering to a tiny bit of sexual frustration. He had a sneaky suspicion that he wouldn’t have had a time half as bad if Aziraphale hadn’t wound him up so thoroughly the night before, but he guessed he had to work for it, otherwise obeying would be way too easy.

As it was, he felt as though he was giving off electricity like a faulty cable while his mood slowly but surely worsened, and by the end of the day he was prowling his own flat like a caged animal, vicious and seething and lethally bored. He’d tried a cool shower some time before to take his mind off things, so to speak, but wrapping a hand around his naked cock hadn’t been exactly the best idea ever to convince his stubborn body to let go. He hoped that Aziraphale’s call would soothe his nerves a little, but he was to be sorely disappointed.

Although Aziraphale did call dead on time, as he’d promised, there was something definitely off with him. He sounded detached, almost artificially indifferent, and yet small, cowered in a way that made Crowley clench his fists from miles away. There was an uneasiness bristling just beneath the surface of his carefully constructed well-mannered tone, which Crowley recognised now as a defensive mechanism just as blatant as his own attempts at distraction. Their conversation started off in a way that remained maddeningly polite and thoroughly meaningless until Crowley pushed them a little towards whatever was going on in the country and, when ignored, asked a few pointed questions. Aziraphale sounded _angry_ then, for some reason; the strained, helpless kind of anger of a trapped animal. He was doing his best to hide it, and Crowley didn’t think Aziraphale was angry with him, as such, but it was difficult not to take it personally. Frustrated, Crowley eventually tried to bring sex into the mix in a desperate attempt at salvaging the conversation, but he barely got a few distracted ‘_good boy_’s for his efforts, as though he was a dog to be petted once and then forgotten about.

That was what Crowley found more maddening, and infinitely more humiliating. He felt pathetic for trying, for showing just how desperate he was for attention, and the rest of the call was quick and rather clipped. Aziraphale confirmed that he was coming home the day after, probably late in the afternoon, and that he would call Crowley as soon as he stepped foot in his flat. He declined with terse politeness Crowley’s offer to pick him up at the station, and confirmed that they would meet on the thirtieth, straight after work. Crowley felt a little like he was being pacified by being offered something he wanted, but he didn’t comment. He didn’t know what to say, or how to deal with that situation.

He felt lost, and sad, and rather betrayed when he hung up, uncertain on whatever the hell had happened. It didn’t seem exactly as though things were going _badly_, per se, but there was something definitely not right in all that. Crowley would’ve bet good money on the fact that Aziraphale’s horrible family was involved, somehow. It wasn’t a particularly reassuring thought.

He threw the phone on the couch and stood up, incapable of sitting still with all that tension rolling off him in waves. His silk robe flapped about his naked thighs as he paced, naked feet slapping against the cold woodwork. He paused a moment to put the soft velvet of his slippers between the floor and his bare soles, then resumed his nervous prowling. He knew that there wasn’t much to be done, for now, aside from sitting tight until Aziraphale left that horrible place and came to his senses. Aziraphale had been trying, that much had been painfully obvious during their excruciatingly awkward conversation, but his family had a grip on him that Crowley couldn’t understand, even less loosen in any way. Waiting was the only sensible course of action.

And there came that word again. Waiting. Waiting for something to happen, for someone to come along, for a better job, a better life. Waiting to be called, to be considered, to be _seen_. Crowley was so bloody tired of waiting. He was tired of screaming into the void, of being as flash and loud as he could in the wretched hope that someone, somehow, would sweep down from above and wipe the record clean. He had been biding his time for too long, treading shallow waters, too afraid and lethargic and way too comfortable in his listless life to consider dipping his toe in those shark-infested depths stretching just out of reach. He was tired of sitting back and watching his own life unfurl in front of his eyes like something belonging to somebody else. He couldn’t do much for Aziraphale, who couldn’t and shouldn’t be anyone but himself, with all his hung-ups and deep wounds that would not stop festering, but he was directly responsible for his own life, and it wasn’t fair to demand his partner to come and fix it when he had his own shite to deal with. Crowley was a grown man, for crying out loud, and he wasn’t too old to turn the tables around and start anew. He could change, if he wanted. God knew he’d twisted and bent himself enough in his life for much less.

He stalked to the desk he kept painstakingly neat and generally ignored and pulled back the rolling chair. It rumbled a little as its wheels scratched the woodwork, but it was comfortable enough as Crowley sat behind the shiny marble surface, wine-red and streaked with white, his long shins encased by the curls and twists of gilded iron that trailed down from the top and framed the marble legs. The table was a monstrosity of a thing, gaudy and insanely expensive. Crowley had bought it in one of his tackiest moments, somewhere in his early twenties, and never got around to change the rather conservative rolling chair he’d bought with the little money he had left. Perhaps he should, though he wasn’t really sure what kind of chair would work well with such a terrible eyesore. Maybe a throne. But those were thoughts for another time.

There was a laptop resting over the red marble, black and sleek and used so little it looked brand new. Crowley hooked it up to the nearest wall socket and turned it on. It was already Boxing Day when he snapped it close again, the night dark and deep and inexorably slipping and tumbling towards a cold, grey morning.

* * *

Crowley woke up rather late the next day, after a much too short night of uneasy sleep. He’d known that things had changed since the last time he’d braved the job market, but he hadn’t realised just how much. Everything seemed brand new and terrifying and hopelessly confusing, and it took him quite a long time to identify that crushing emotion he felt as _despair_. It was all too easy now to understand why exactly he’d preferred to keep out of the entire mess and cling tightly to his job instead of looking for something new. He was too old, too set in his ways to adapt. He’d been an idiot to think he could. The world had changed too fast for him to catch up, and everything seemed inaccessibly enormous around him, hopelessly out of reach. Too much to do, to think, to take in. Too much.

He stayed in bed for a long time, feeling too worn-out to get up, staring at the play of soft morning lights streaking his ceiling and feeling utterly, devastatingly lost. He didn’t know what to do, and the idea of crawling back to his own old life was suddenly unbearable. He felt alone in a way that transcended every kind of loneliness he’d ever felt in the last decades, a sentiment that was angry and helpless and very, very old. He was suddenly a kid again, sitting on his makeshift bed and watching with fear and a detached sort of alienation the hostile glares of his cousins, blatantly unhappy to be made to share their space with a relative they barely knew and were forced to tolerate. Lost and anchorless in a world that suddenly didn’t look like anything familiar anymore, but a cold, foreign land, filled with treacherous spots and enduringly hostile.

He hated feeling like that. He’d spent decades building himself exactly that way so that he wouldn’t _have_ to feel like that ever again. And yet, there he was, confused and pathetically scared. Childish in his terror. But he was better than that. He was.

He threw back the covers and stood on unsteady feet. He needed a shower, that was what he needed. Something to wash the sweat of that uneasy night away together with all those unwanted memories and twisting anguish. He padded towards the bathroom and into his shower cubicle, and sighed loudly and deeply as the hot water hit his face and sloshed down his shoulders. It felt so good, so clean. _Warm like a touch_. An old, cherished thought. He let the soft comfort laced to that feeling reach deep into his bones, warming him from within, as he lathered his body with sandalwood-scented soap.

Before he knew it, he had his cock in his hand, half-hard and already aching. Aziraphale’s tender blue eyes crossed his mind in a flash, like a falling star, blinking for a moment and already gone. He’d promised. He knew that. But Aziraphale wasn’t there, and Crowley was alone, alone and scared and seething and helpless and he couldn’t, he simply _couldn’t_ keep that under control as well right now. He was already fighting tooth and nail to hold himself together as it was. He needed an outlet. He wasn’t picky, really. Anything would do. And since he couldn’t call Aziraphale and be comforted (oh, he _could_, he just didn’t want to), he would settle for the next best thing.

He couldn’t help the shuddering groan that escaped his lips as he squeezed his shaft in a slow, lingering stroke. It felt heavenly, the pressure, the tortuous pleasure, as need coiled tight and exquisite in his lower belly. He thought of nothing as he kept going, fantasised on nothing, as he pressed his forehead against the cool tiles of the cubicle and focused completely on every single shudder rocking his body. There was no space for anyone, anything, only that, the desperate, clawing hunger that was slowly being fed, the ecstatic absence of thought. His mind was blank as he pulled at his aching flesh, suds easing the way, a white noise filling his ears. Moisture beaded the cool tiles as he braced himself on his forearm, pressed tight against the slippery wall, and the damp air seemed too thick to be breathed as he gasped for oxygen in the blessed silence. He didn’t slow down to play with his bollocks, his hole, to rub his perineum just right to milk pleasure from his body like squeezing pulp from a grape. No time, no mind for that. He just kept going, pleasure mounting steadily under his skin as he pulled at his hard cock over and over and over, the movements nearly mechanical as he sped up until he was stroking himself in a frenzy, panting and groaning like a wounded animal, racing to topple over.

He came with a gasp, hand twisting viciously around his shaft as his come hit the tiles in thick ropes. He didn’t stop his stubborn stroking until there was nothing left, and then kept going, trembling helplessly as the toothed edge of oversensitivity bit into his quivering flesh. It wasn’t pleasurable anymore, not really, but it took him a long moment to slow down, to let go. He felt empty and heavy and cold as he braced his weight on the damp tiles with both arms, but that jittery, nauseating dread seemed to be gone as well. He washed the tiles and himself perfunctorily with the showerhead and stepped out on legs that felt like rubber, forcing his limbs to bow to his will as he towelled his body dry and padded on naked feet to his bedroom to retrieve a clean pair of pants and his silk robe. He moved to the kitchen in his slippers, and decided that he didn’t really feel like eating, after all. He made himself a cup of coffee and headed to his desk, exhausted to the bone but too stubborn to give up. He wasn’t going to be scared off by a bloody Google search. He _wasn’t_.

Crowley spent the best part of his day _thinking_, which wasn’t exactly something he was used to or his favourite way to pass the time, and evaluating the huge mass of information he was steadily digging out. He stopped at some point during the afternoon to order some pizza, and munched distractedly on it as he jotted down stuff on the old notebook he’d dug out from some dark corner of his storage room. Someone’s gift, probably. Crowley couldn’t remember ever buying a notebook in his entire life.

By the time the afternoon slowly started to decline, Crowley had got over his instinctive panic and decided that the best way to go forwards was to consider one problem at a time.

First of all, it was pretty obvious that no paper with any sort of self-respect would consider hiring a journalist without at the very least a Bachelor’s degree of some sort. Crowley was still trying to make sense of the digital job market that had so thoroughly spooked him the night before, but that had become painfully clear during his two-day-long job search. He’d probably need a bit longer to get some semblance of a grasp on the madness that was looking for a new job in that day and age, but he still had come out of all that with some certainties. Nothing that he hadn’t at least strongly suspected before, but it felt different to see it for himself, black on white, if on a screen.

What obviously followed was that he needed a degree. Which, as it turned out, was a brand new sort of madness. Crowley knew that it had been some time since universities had been offering their services for free in England, but he wasn’t prepared for the absurd fee of more than nine thousand pounds per year. The night before, the news had shocked him to the point of closing everything down and turning in out of sheer mental exhaustion. In the somewhat friendlier light of day, the thought wasn’t so thoroughly disheartening, but it was still a hard blow to take in. Crowley didn’t have that kind of money. On the other hand, he doubted every single university student who had ever crossed his way did, so there had to be a way around it.

Crowley was just digging into the hellish pit of student funding when the phone rang.

For a long, still moment, he simply blinked at the noise. It was with a sort of glazed confusion that he realised he’d been so focused on his little personal project that he’d completely forgotten about Aziraphale. It was a rather startling insight to gain, and Crowley at first was way too shocked to feel guilty. He wasn’t used to having something to think about capable of overriding his momentary obsessions. He clung to a person or a feeling with impossible obstinacy until he wasn’t interested anymore, and then he moved on. He didn’t want to move on from Aziraphale; the thought alone filled him with unspeakable dread. But he hadn’t really thought about him for an entire day, and that was... odd. Unprecedented, even. Crowley was still trying to wrap his mind around it as he picked up the call.

“Good evening, dear,” Aziraphale said, low and a little subdued. Crowley wasn’t the only one feeling out of sort, apparently. “I’m home.”

Far and quiet and ever so hollow, as though a light had been switched off. It hit Crowley like a punch, sad and cruel. Suddenly, he felt nearly like crying for Aziraphale, and didn’t even know why.

“Welcome back, angel,” he said, all his thoughts and plans forgotten as the bare affection he felt for that man barrelled through him, leaving him breathless. “I missed you.”

Crowley listened in on the silence that followed, broken after a long, draining moment by a sigh so deep and painful and trembling that Crowley felt it down to his very bones.

“I missed you too, darling. It’s good to be home.”

Crowley closed his eyes, allowing Aziraphale’s sweet voice to lull him into a more peaceful state of mind. There was still something deeply, unsettlingly off lingering in the air, but Crowley ignored it, too greedy for Aziraphale’s tenderness to spare much thought for anything else.

They chattered a bit about Aziraphale’s trip, which he’d spent reading some Dickens, but when Aziraphale asked him what he’d been up to, Crowley found himself, with no small amount of shock, lying about it.

“Nothing much, really. Worked on my Bentley. Cleaned up a bit. Slept, mostly.” A chuckle, nervous for some reason. “You know me. An exciting man, through and through.”

Such a strange thing. He would have lied the other way around, once upon a time. Making up wild nights in clubs and the like. He scrubbed a hand through his short hair. He could hardly recognise himself.

He could hardly recognise Aziraphale, too. He half expected him to spot the lie in a heartbeat, but Aziraphale simply offered a distracted hum in reply.

“I hope you weren’t too lonely,” he simply said, soft and sad and devastatingly sincere.

Crowley scoffed softly into the phone, gripping it tight. He had, hadn’t he? But there were things he needed to do alone, and if Aziraphale had been there, if Crowley hadn’t been angry and lonely and heartbroken he would’ve never actually got started. He would’ve let himself get lost into Aziraphale’s tenderness, his deep, sweet love, and allowed him to chase away the world. But Crowley couldn’t just bury himself in Aziraphale forever, and the world would still be there when they parted.

“I was alright,” he answered, with shocking honesty. “What about you? Were you lonely, angel?”

Another silence, deep and quivering and devastating. Crowley closed his eyes, feeling the guilty, shameful sorrow trickling through the line.

“Of course not, dear,” Aziraphale answered eventually, voice forcedly calm, forcedly even. “I was with my family. What a daft question. It’s you I’m worried about.”

_It’s you I’m worried about._

Such an odd thing. Crowley was about to say exactly the same.

* * *

Going back to work felt strange, the day after. Crowley woke up at six, took a shower, dressed up and drove to London, just like he did every single day, but there was an odd coat to the monotony of it all, as though the world had subtly but markedly shifted on its axis. The office was exactly as Crowley had left it, dreary and unbearably hateful, but it felt strange to walk those drab corridors, to sit at his desk, as though he was waiting for something to happen.

Nothing did, though. Crowley went through his e-mails and worked on his new piece and spent the day as he always did, in jarring normality, as though he hadn’t been uprooting his entire life during the few days he had for himself.

It took him some time to realise fully that he hadn’t actually _done_ anything, not in a practical way. He hadn’t quitted his job, hadn’t enrolled to any university, hadn’t even applied for a new position somewhere. His life felt exactly the same as it always had because it _was_ the same. But it was just a patina, a thin layer covering a surface of tumultuous waves. How could it be any different? He might not have _done_ anything, but the mental shift had been enormous, powerful enough to change the entire world around him. It didn’t matter that it was all the same. _Crowley_ wasn’t the same. That was enough to change his perception of the world, and therefore the world himself.

He was still riding that strange, terrifying and subtly exhilarating feeling as he drove back home. His strange Christmas epiphany had felt both suddenly real and disquietingly ephemeral at the same time when confronted with the concrete existence of his office, a physical space that he could interact with, and Crowley didn’t really know what to do with himself as he pottered about. He ended up sprawled on the couch with his jeans and pants pulled down to mid-thigh, tugging idly at his cock. It was the best way he knew to deal with extra energy, the only way, and he was staring at the ceiling and thinking about Aziraphale as he played dreamily with his balls. He could chalk up the previous morning to a moment of weakness due to extenuating circumstances, but there was no such excuse right now. He wasn’t desperate, lonely, terrified half out of his mind. He was still unsettled, but he felt energised, too. There was no reason to break the promise he’d made to Aziraphale again. And yet there he was, stroking his cock with debauched laziness, drinking in the delicious, maddening pleasure of his fist gliding over his hard shaft, squeezing it oh-just-right, or the teasing pressure of his fingers behind his balls, twisting in the narrow space between his trapped thighs to reach for his clenching, needy hole.

Oh, it was so delightful, so wonderful. Crowley thought of Aziraphale’s weight on top of him, pressing him down, of the touch of his clever fingers, and wondered what he would do, what he would say, when Crowley told him that he’d broken his promise. He wondered if Aziraphale would be crossed with him, and felt a frisson of unease trail down his spine.

What a daft thing he was. Of course Aziraphale wouldn’t be _mad_ at him, not in a real way. He’d said as much. But he _would_ punish Crowley, he’d promised that, and Crowley couldn’t help but find the thought more than titillating. They’d been talking about Aziraphale delivering a thorough spanking to Crowley’s bare arse long enough by now that Crowley was slowly starting to move from intrigued to actively looking forward to trying it out. The idea of being that kind of vulnerable was enough for his skin to pebble in goosebumps, and Crowley came in his fist at the thought of lying on his belly across Aziraphale’s thighs, arse in helpless display as Aziraphale held him still and brought his hand down on him again and again. The image was so vivid that it blotted out completely the uneasiness he’d felt at the idea of being at the receiving end of Aziraphale’s displeasure, and he laid there for a long time after, sated and languorous and satisfied before he managed to recover enough control over his limbs to clean himself up and sort himself out.

He was heating up whatever was left of his cold pizza when Aziraphale called. The evening before they had ended their conversation with some polite, strained chatter, and they seemed bound for a repeated performance. Aziraphale asked Crowley about his day, and then talked a little about his own, which had been exceptionally quiet with the students being mostly home for the holidays. Crowley considered smashing the maddening politeness of their conversation by confessing that he’d broken his promise, but he couldn’t seem to find the right moment. He didn’t feel like using sex as a diversion this time, even if that lingering uneasiness was driving him crazy. The intimacy between them was something to be cherished, with a dimension of its own, not a weapon to be deployed as cheap misdirection. He thought about something else, but the project he’d been working on over the past two days felt too new, too raw to be shared, even with Aziraphale, so he ended up saying nothing at all save vague platitudes.

The call ended just as disappointingly subdued as the one before, and the one that was to come after, and the one after that. Crowley spent his weekend looking at universities and making plans, shoving aside time and time again that unsettling feeling that rose in the pits of his stomach every time he thought about Aziraphale. There was something going on there, but Crowley refused to be terrified by it (even if he was, deep down), refused to allow his nerves to eat him alive. He trusted Aziraphale. He truly did, shockingly enough. And he knew that Aziraphale loved him. Whatever was happening, he could feel the tenderness of Aziraphale’s feelings even through the distance, the desperate fondness thrumming underneath the polite coating of his cool voice. He had no idea what had happened to throw Aziraphale in that uneasy funk (though he didn’t need to be a genius to guess that it had something to do with his thrice-damned family), but he had faith they could work through it, once face to face.

Fancy that. Him, having faith. The real deal. Oddest things had happened, but that wasn’t very far from the top.

Despite that, Monday came with a strained sort of anticipation. Crowley was all too glad to be home from work, since that allowed him to focus on his project, instead of staring at the walls in mind-boggling boredom and wallowing on his problems. He spent most of the day working through the mysteries of the UCAS service, and considering pros and cons of the universities he’d been looking up. He was just musing, right now. He hadn’t decided anything yet. It was a bit pitiful as excuses went, but it allowed him to keep his fears at bay and his anxiety at a minimum. He was just looking. No harm in looking. No need to uproot his life just yet, even if he kept swinging between a mind-numbing terror at the mere idea and a strung-out sort of elation.

He was all too glad to close down his computer as the afternoon drew to an end, but he was jittery, too. He could put aside the excitement and fear of his project for a while, but he got to deal with whatever was going on between him and Aziraphale instead. Now that it was almost time to see him again, the uneasiness between them had suddenly become real, a wall nearly impossible to climb, and Crowley had no idea how to tackle the issue. He’d vaguely hoped that the issue would take care of itself the moment they met, but now that such moment was almost upon him, he wasn’t so sure it’d be as simple as that. Very few things in his life had been.

He was jingling the keys in his hand as he walked through his parking lot, nervously going through the preparations he’d done in view of Aziraphale’s visit. He was a bit self-conscious about having a stranger in his home, even if that wasn’t a stranger, it was _Aziraphale_, which assuaged that first worry a little but brought forth an entire new barrel of concerns with it. Crowley had cleaned up his flat as thoroughly as he knew how during the weekend, between one bout at the laptop and the next, and he’d made sure his fridge was up to the task that very morning. He’d bought rash and beans and toast and jam and fresh butter for breakfast, Aziraphale’s favourite brands of tea and cocoa and a few steaks Crowley could prepare for their meals. His cooking skills didn’t get much further than that, but he figured they could always order in, even if the selection wasn’t as great so far into the woods as it was in central London, or even drive somewhere for a fancy dinner in a restaurant, if it struck their fancy. For the first time in the twenty-odd years he’d lived there Crowley had looked up the restaurants of the area, and he had to admit to a few nice choices at their disposal. He’d also bought crackers and cheese and cold meat for snacks, and wine, and an entire Black Forest gâteau that was currently resting in his fridge. He couldn’t think of anything else he could or should get, aside from the man himself.

The Queen did very little to calm him down, as he speeded towards London just above the limit. He would have to slow down for Aziraphale anyway, since the man had got used to Crowley’s particular brand of driving but he always looked ready to face his death at any time when he was sitting by his side, and there was something uniquely soothing in the roaring of the Bentley’s engine. It wasn’t the real deal, of course, but Crowley had given up authenticity in favour of practicality the moment he’d found out that a 1929 Bentley’s original engine wouldn’t be pushed for love or money above 80mph.

Crowley pulled up to Aziraphale’s building a little over nine o’clock, as agreed. Aziraphale was nowhere in sight, and Crowley rang him up. The call was short and terse and unsettlingly neutral, which did exactly nothing to ease Crowley’s nerves. He’d turned down the stereo a little, but the Queen were still thrumming in the background as he tapped his fingers against the wheel.

Luckily enough, it took Aziraphale barely a couple of minutes to come down, travel bag in tow. Crowley hadn’t seen the thing ever since their unfortunate country getaway, but he was too busy taking in the well-loved figure in woollen coat and fedora to be overly bothered by unwelcomed memories. He could spy a soft face and softer curls from under the brim of the hat, and gloved hands clutching the leather handles of the worn bag.

“Hello, angel,” Crowley purred, gallantly getting out of the car to take the bag from Aziraphale and hold the door open for him. It was a cold, wet night, but it wasn’t raining just yet.

“Good evening, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured back, a mindless reply, as he handed over his bag. It was right then that he glanced up from under the brim of his fedora, staring at Crowley with bright, wide eyes for a short moment before climbing into his seat.

The look rattled Crowley to the bones. There was something sad, and lost, and defeated in Aziraphale’s eyes. He looked broken-hearted. It was all Crowley could do to stash the travel bag on the backseats and get behind the wheel, instead of gathering Aziraphale close and holding him until that terrible unhappiness melted away.

Soon, he thought. Soon.

He pulled away from the pavement and headed home, heart cracking just a little bit at the soft touch of Aziraphale’s gloved hand reaching for his own over the stick.


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely people!  
Life has been pretty hectic lately (which is why it’s taking me so long to answer your wonderful comments), but after the outpours of love with which my last chapter has been received I couldn’t really leave you hanging. I’m not sure I’ll be able to update again in two weeks (it might be three), but I’ll do my very best.  
A special thanks goes as usual to [uponwhatgrounds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uponwhatgrounds/pseuds/uponwhatgrounds), who has gifted me with yet another stunning [illustration](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26406721/chapters/66829156). If you like my story, please consider showering the artist with all the love such talent deserves.  
And now, without any further ado, I’ll leave you to the chapter. I really, really hope you’ll like it, because… well. You’ll see.

The drive home seemed to take forever. Crowley would’ve loved nothing more than to chalk it down to anticipation, to the unbearable need to erase the space between them until he could sink into Aziraphale’s skin and never leave, but it was more than that.

There was a tension brewing in the silence between them, as loud as a scream, and Crowley felt the prickling tendrils of that charged-up feeling creeping up his spine like stinging nettle. He wasn’t sure he wanted to get home, wasn’t sure at all he wanted to be there when that intolerable tension finally snapped. And yet, he couldn’t wait for it to happen, couldn’t wait to be rid of whatever lingered unspoken between them like a stretch of badlands, bare and hostile and brimming with sharp pinnacles and treacherous depths. He tried to remember when the last time they had touched was, the last time they had been able to forge that deep, violently intimate connection; it couldn’t have been more than a week, yet it felt much longer. He couldn’t stop sneaking side-glances at the still figure sitting at his left, drinking him in, even though that meant sipping from the same poisoned cup that brewed that intolerable distance.

The bristling quiet seemed to engulf the small space like a scent, cloying and overpowering. Aziraphale had barely said a word since they left Soho, subdued and aloof and barricaded within himself with walls as high as mountains, but still he held Crowley’s hand with a grip so tight that Crowley would’ve probably had to pry Aziraphale’s fingers away one by one if he wanted to get free. Not that he wanted to, of course. How could he? He’d longed for Aziraphale’s touch so desperately, for his company, for his closeness. He’d thought he knew exactly how much, but being so close to Aziraphale was giving new depths to his longing, scratching and howling deep under his skin.

Aziraphale looked so lovely in the flashing lights of the highway, sitting tall and composed. Crowley couldn’t stop peeking at his pale skin, the soft curve of his chin, the delicate shape of his nose, the wisps of blond hair curling ever so enticingly above his collar, escaping the tight brim of his fedora. The several layers he wore made him look a little shapeless, but Crowley knew the body hiding underneath the cotton and wool and mixed blends, the way the flesh gave way under his hands, and the way it didn’t. He knew every single secret place and every sweet patch of skin, the scent of him in the morning as Crowley sank his nose into downy blonde curls, the taste of his kisses, the touch of those deceptively soft hands.

Oh, those hands. Crowley swallowed thickly at the thought of what exactly those hands were going to do to him some time soon, the desperate, rabid hunger of his flesh blotting out everything else. His Christmas epiphany seemed suddenly nothing more than a dream, dim and fading away, as the overpowering reality of Aziraphale sitting there within reach washed over him. He needed to erase that distance, to _feel_ Aziraphale close in a way that was irrational and all-consuming. He felt it thrumming under his skin, that maddening pull, barely kept under control by Aziraphale’s firm grip around his hand–a grip that didn’t slacken and didn’t falter even as they pulled into Crowley’s parking slot, what felt like eons later.

There was no one around to disturb the deep quiet of the underground car park, only row after row of silent cars, the chrome of their bodies shining in the electric lights. Crowley reached slowly for the key, killing both the engine and the low murmuring of Freddy Mercury’s voice in one swift blow. They were plunged suddenly in a silence that was absolute, deep enough to have echoes.

They stayed there for a long moment, until it became very clear that Aziraphale wasn’t about to either release Crowley’s hand or acknowledge his presence in any other way, even less to go anywhere at all. When the tension grew too high, and the sight of the bare concrete wall unbearable, Crowley decided to take action in the form of turning in his seat in a squeak of pure leather and reaching for Aziraphale’s hand, still covering his own over the stick.

The touch was gentle, but Aziraphale reacted as though electrocuted. He snatched his hand away and blinked at Crowley with big, hazy eyes.

“We’re here, angel,” Crowley tried to quip, faking a relaxed slouch against the back of his seat and watching Aziraphale with what he hoped was a smooth smirk, instead of an uneasy grimace. “My humble abode.”

Aziraphale risked a peek out of the rolled-up window, as thought quite expecting to find out that Crowley had parked his car in the middle of his living room. The rough concrete of the car park seemed to make some sort of impression, however, by the way Aziraphale stared at the orderly line of cars as though he’d never seen the like in his life.

“Yes,” he said eventually. He looked down at his hands, demurely clasped over the gentle curve of his belly. “We’re here.”

That didn’t seem to cue him in on the fact that the only logical action, at this point, would be to get out Crowley’s car and into his apartment, and that silence was shredding Crowley’s nerves into ribbons.

“We’d better go, then,” he said, uneasily enough, as he unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the door. He heard Aziraphale follow suit as he picked the travel bag and slung the strap on his shoulder. Then he locked the car and led the way to the lift, debating the entire time whether he should take Aziraphale’s hand or not. He wanted to, but that wind-swept distance made difficult for him to gauge the moment (a task he’d never been particularly good at even at his very best). He ended up sticking his hands in the pockets of his coat and riding the lift in silence, dark glasses solidly planted on his nose.

His flat seemed vaguely alien to him when he stepped inside, as though in those couple of hours something had shifted ever so slightly and changed completely the feeling he had of the place. Or maybe it was Aziraphale’s presence by his side that morphed everything his shadow touched, like a curse in a fairytale. But it didn’t felt ominous, just... different. A bit less like his own.

Then the warmth hit his skin, welcome and familiar, and Crowley felt that odd feeling starting to dissipate. He’d left the heating on while he was out, significantly less worried about starting a fire in his perfectly maintained apartment than Aziraphale was in his own, and his body was keen to soak in the warmth.

“Come in, angel,” Crowley said, gently laying the overnight bag down by the threshold. He locked the door behind Aziraphale and took off his coat, hanging it with his scarf on the rack by the door.

“Oh. This place, it’s... big,” Aziraphale murmured, distractedly pulling the gloves off his hands and stuffing them in the pockets of his woollen coat. “And neat, very neat. I didn’t realise you were so neat.” A blink, as Aziraphale focused his gaze on Crowley with a little grimace. “Oh, that came out all wrong. I meant... well, I meant that my place surely must look like a hopeless mess to you. It is a bit cluttered.”

“Oh, your flat is a disaster, angel, but it’s charming, and it suits you,” Crowley quipped back, a hint of the familiar warmth and ease usually lingering between them flashing up for a moment. “Come, I’ll show you ‘round. Mind you, it’s not as big as it seems. It’s just, well...”

“Neat,” Aziraphale completed for him, voice low and laced with a spark of mischief. He looked strangely out of place in Crowley’s flat, somewhat exotic, like a traveller from another time disturbing the sterile beauty of an operation room. There was the tiniest curl of a smirk lurking at the corners of his mouth, and the rapid change of temperature from the outside chill had brought a flush to those pale cheeks. He looked soft, and inviting, and finally, _finally_ close enough to touch.

That was all the hint Crowley needed. He pinched the starched brim of the fedora between thumb and forefinger and pulled it off, freeing a crown of soft blond curls slightly flattened by being covered up for so long. He ran gentle fingers through them, watching them fluff up into the slightly dishevelled look Aziraphale carried so well, and then leant forward to place a kiss on that lovely mouth. It was a chaste kiss, lips slotting together as they breathed in each other’s closeness, but there was an aching tenderness to it that burrowed into Crowley’s skin and nestled there.

When the kiss ended they parted slowly, Aziraphale pressing their foreheads together as they treaded breaths for a moment before pulling away. His eyes looked bright and hungry and brimming with affection as he took Crowley in, that hunting heartbreak somewhat pushed in the background as he stroked Crowley’s cheek. His palm was too tantalising close to Crowley’s lips for Crowley not to press a kiss against warm skin, and was rewarded with one of those intimate smiles that he always felt deep into his belly.

It seemed the right moment to say something, but Crowley didn’t trust his mouth. He kissed Aziraphale’s palm again one last time before cradling that beloved hand into his own and pulling away.

“Give me your coat, angel,” Crowley said, voice a little rough. He busied himself with hanging the fedora on the rack by the door while Aziraphale complied without a word, and couldn’t help but steal a long lingering look as he got handed the coat. The sweater had a nearly cloud-like quality as it hugged Aziraphale’s frame, the navy-blue of the threaded wool bringing out his eyes in a way that Crowley rarely happened to witness with Aziraphale’s penchant for soft, creamy colours. Aziraphale looked positively delectable like that, soft and sturdy and full of desperate affection. He seemed one step away from grabbing Crowley and crushing him against his chest, and yet he held back, something uneasy shifting in his face.

Crowley hung Aziraphale’s coat and took his hand, pressing a kiss to the knuckles before tugging slightly at him.

“Come, I’ll show you my castle,” he quipped, voice a little lower than he would’ve liked, but the moment felt oddly hushed. Aziraphale followed without a word as Crowley led him through the living room, offering only a vague nod towards the bedroom (they would have plenty of time to explore _that_ at leisure, and oh, how the thought thrilled him), and then stopped in the middle of his greenery.

Crowley couldn’t help but beam in a rush of undiluted pride as he heard Aziraphale’s little intake of breath.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, low and quiet as though they were standing in a church. His eyes were huge and full of wonder as they took in Crowley’s plants, green and luscious and suitably terrified into dazzling beauty in view of Aziraphale’s visit. “Did you really do this? It’s _beautiful_.”

“They could do better,” Crowley said, lest the compliment might go to his plants’ heads. (Did plants have heads? Oh, it didn’t matter.) “But yeah, I’m reasonably satisfied with their progress so far.”

Aziraphale chuckled a little under his breath, but he didn’t offer any comeback to that. Under Crowley’s apprehensive gaze, he walked slowly from one plant to the next, offering to each and every one of them the same amount of attention. Crowley would never admit to being a little worried about Aziraphale’s judgment on his beloved plants, but there was something about that single-minded focus that brought back to his mind being the _object_ of it, made to stand still while Aziraphale slowly examined him.

The thought sparked a shiver down his spine, and Crowley felt that impossible hunger coming crushing down on him in a roiling sweep. He licked his lips, mouth dry as he struggled to swallow around a lump in his throat, pressure building at impossible speed in his belly. He felt charged-up all of a sudden, greedy for Aziraphale’s attention, and almost jealous of his plants that were soaking it in as though they deserved it. He’d been denied for so long, getting by with lukewarm phone calls and distracted platitudes. He wanted the familiar weight of Aziraphale’s focus, the thrilling, jarring heat washing over him as those blue eyes were fixed on him and him only.

He wanted Aziraphale, all of him, in a way that burnt his skin like acid.

“I broke my promise, you know,” he blurted out, voice low and rough and just a little breathless. He felt something a bit like anxiety and a lot like anticipation squeeze his stomach into a fist at the sight of Aziraphale going very very still, even as his eyes didn’t really shift from the rubber plant he was studying so fixedly. “I touched myself, the way you told me not to.”

Silence shuddered between them for a moment, electric like a magnetic storm, until it was shattered by Aziraphale’s flat, level voice.

“I see.” A break, Aziraphale’s eyes not budging from his careful observation of that blasted rubber plant. “Did you peak?”

Crowley was nearly started when Aziraphale shifted, the lack of eye contact surprisingly unnerving. But Aziraphale was just clasping his hands behind his back, his face showing nothing but a meticulously constructed neutral expression. Crowley wasn’t completely sure how he felt at being so studiously ignored. Well, not _ignored_, not really (he was fairly certain that not a twitch in his face was going unnoticed by Aziraphale’s keen eyes), just... coolly dismissed, like a misbehaving brat. It didn’t seem like a particularly pleasant feeling, all in all.

He looked away, uncertain on how to proceed.

“Yes,” he said, going for the truth. There was no much point in lying, after all, and he’d _wanted_ to get there. He’d started the whole thing, and he’d more or less purposely disobeyed so that they could end up exactly where they were right now. He didn’t know why he suddenly felt so off-balance. Perhaps it was that odd feeling still lingering between them. Perhaps something else. Perhaps it was being anything but the complete, obvious focus of Aziraphale’s attention. He wasn’t used to being played with while Aziraphale’s attention seemed absorbed with something else.

Aziraphale harrumphed softly in reply. He seemed lost in thoughts.

“How many times?”

That maddening level tone, again. Curt and quiet and vaguely disquieting.

“Five.”

A deep breath in reply. Not the kind that hinted at some roiling hunger brewing underneath, no; something vaguely thoughtful instead, like a mathematician studying a particularly complicated equation on a board. It sparked a strange shiver down Crowley’s back, that feeling of being so carefully studied, even as Aziraphale’s eyes were still trained on that fucking plant.

“Tell me.”

Crowley licked his lips again, tongue as dry as sandpaper.

“The firm time on Boxing Day, in the shower. A quick thing, really. Jerked my cock until I was done. I just... I couldn’t. I couldn’t.” Crowley broke off for a moment, uneasy with the pleading note ringing in his voice. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like how small it made him feel, how guilty. He remembered having begged for forgiveness before, in the heat of the moment, and having thought nothing of it. This was... different. He felt his forehead scrunch up in a small frown, as he soldiered on. “The second time was the day after. On the couch. Played a little with my balls, dragging it out. Thinking about the way you were going to punish me.”

Oh, that sounded way better. Heat was simmering again under his skin, pebbled with goosebumps.

“Twice during the weekend,” he carried on, a bit faster, “in the shower, both times, playing with my nipples, my cock, my bollocks. And then this morning, in my bed. Got the lube out. Screwed a finger up my arse while I stroked my cock.”

The silence that followed was just as electric as the one before, but heavier, almost breathless. Crowley’s blood was thundering in his temples as his skin felt the quivering pressure of a storm brewing in the still air. He wasn’t really surprised to feel his cock twitch in his pants, growing hard and thick and aching.

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

There was snow in Aziraphale’s voice, now, trickling down Crowley’s spine like a melting ice cube.

“Yes.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” A flash of blue eyes, cold and detached and for a split of a second almost _angry_ as they took Crowley in. Crowley felt frozen on the spot all of a sudden, the weight of Aziraphale’s attention pinning him down like a butterfly in an old frame. “I’m really glad that you enjoyed disobeying me. Disregarding my commands like they meant nothing at all.”

Aziraphale’s spine was straight as a blade as he turned slowly towards Crowley, his hands clasped behind his back in a vicious grasp. His eyes were hard, nearly as hard as the last (and only) time they had fought, and Crowley felt his stomach drop at the reminder, something unpleasant unfurling in his chest. He wasn’t _scared_, not really, but he was... unsettled. The displeased curl of Aziraphale’s mouth felt like a grip around his stomach, tight and squeezing way too hard to be pleasurable. He felt off balance, something disquietingly close to anguish piling up in his guts.

Aziraphale’s next words hit him like a slap in the face.

“This is _not_ the sort of behaviour I expect from my submissive,” Aziraphale said, very calmly, every word enunciated with a terrible kind of clarity. “I am very disappointed in you, Crowley.”

Crowley inhaled sharply, a dizzy sort of frenzy mounting with vicious strength in his chest. He didn’t know what to do with himself, head spinning, feelings all over the place. He didn’t like that, but every single blood vessel seemed to be throbbing under his skin and his heart was thundering like a galloping horse in his chest. He felt wired up, face washed with heat, and dismay piling up in his throat and threatening to suffocate him. It was too much, too much to process, too much to understand, and he wanted to stop and didn’t want to stop. He wanted to see what would come next, even if he dreaded the thought.

He almost flinched back when Aziraphale stepped forward, even if there was nothing really threatening in his stance. He looked coldly disappointed; no real anger sizzling in the background, just that unbearable displeasure that made Crowley feel like he was about to throw up.

“I do not enjoy punishing my submissives,” Aziraphale carried on, frost shimmering in his voice, “but I can, and _will_, if a show of strength is what is needed. I will not allow my submissive to trample all over me, to ignore my requests, to defy my will. My requests are not to be taken lightly. My _will_ is not to be taken lightly. If words alone are not enough for you to understand that, perhaps a more direct approach might yield better results.”

Crowley swallowed, once, twice. They were playing, weren’t they? Aziraphale wasn’t disappointed in him, not really. He wouldn’t. Would he?

“What...” Crowley started. His voice broke, and he tried again: “What... what are you going to do?”

It had been his idea. He had brought them there. What had Aziraphale said, before Crowley had goaded him into that? _It’s all right if you can’t_. Aziraphale wasn’t mad at him. He was proud of Crowley. Wasn’t he? He couldn’t possibly be disappointed, even if Crowley had disobeyed him, even if he had ignored his demands. They were playing. That was all.

It didn’t look like playing, though, as Aziraphale stared him down with icy eyes.

“Go back to the living room and take off your clothes. I trust you will be able to do _that_ without disappointing me again.”

Crowley flinched, as though taking a blow. He turned on his heels without any real conscious decision, feeling too muddled to do anything but following directions. He knew he could stop this with a word, but he wasn’t sure he was able too, and more importantly, he wasn’t sure he _wanted_ to. There was a primeval, animal part of him that knew all too well what came from Aziraphale ordering him to take off his clothes; and that fraction of his soul howled in hunger at being so thoroughly denied for almost a week. He didn’t like that, yet he craved now more than ever that blessed absence of thought that came when Aziraphale took charge of him, that sexual satisfaction that ran deeper than any other he’d ever experienced in his entire life.

It startled him to realise exactly how much he needed to submit, but the thought was a fleeting one, quickly submerged by the riot in his mind and his flesh as he stopped in the middle of his living room and started to unbutton his jacket in the awkward, jerky gestures of a puppet in a show.

“Fold everything and lay it on the coffee table,” Aziraphale instructed, somewhere close. “Your flat is so neat; it would be a shame to make a mess of it.”

Crowley felt a little disconnected from his body as he obeyed, fingers clumsy, heart thundering, mind reeling. It was good and it wasn’t, and he couldn’t understand the duality of such feeling, he didn’t have the words to describe that to himself in his own mind, even less to explain Aziraphale what was wrong. Because something was wrong, very wrong, and something was right, and Crowley couldn’t parse in his mind which was which. Obeying seemed the easiest thing to do, and so he did.

By the time every piece of clothing had been tidily folded upon the coffee table and his shoes had been neatly put away under it, Crowley was already drifting, bollocks aching and cock hard under Aziraphale’s icy glare. He could barely breathe as he sensed, more than saw, Aziraphale slowly circling around him, examining him with the same cool gaze he’d used to examine his plants. He felt the pressure of that gaze on his skin, down the slope of his spine, the curve of his arse, his thighs, his cock, his nipples. He ached for a touch, tethering on the edge of maddening hunger as he waited for Aziraphale to weight Crowley’s bollocks in his palm, explore the cleft of his arse with probing fingers, press a heavy palm against his stomach or trace the straining line of his cock with a thumb, but nothing came. Aziraphale stepped away from him in the same awful silence, hands clasped behind his back and face distressingly neutral as he glanced up at Crowley’s eyes. He seemed to notice something, then, because he reached out, and suddenly light exploded in front of Crowley, everything obscenely bright as Aziraphale calmly folded his sunglasses and put them on top of his clothes.

A wave of shame slammed into Crowley, like claws digging into his belly. Such a simple task, and yet he’d messed up. He’d forgotten the glasses. There had been no trace to reproach on Aziraphale’s face when he took them off, but that didn’t mean anything, did it? Crowley had disappointed him once again. He couldn’t even undress right.

Something seemed to shift for a moment on Aziraphale’s face, something sharp and uneasy and almost pained, but it was gone so quickly Crowley doubted his own mind. Perhaps it was just displeasure, after all. Crowley was hit then by a wave of unhappiness so deep it made him almost cry, but he swallowed it down, waiting to be told what to do.

He didn’t have to wait long.

“Come here, Crowley,” Aziraphale ordered, as he sat down on the couch. Crowley winced at the way those well-loved lips had pronounced his name, all that warmth, that blind approval he’d come to be so deeply dependent on completely gone. Aziraphale looked utterly collected as he stared at him, back straight and thick thighs open slightly to avoid crushing those heavy bollocks Crowley knew were hiding under those blasted layers. “Now, Crowley.”

Crowley could do nothing but comply, tottering closer on unsteady legs. Once within reach, Aziraphale didn’t waste a moment to grab him with surprisingly gentle hands, helping him down. Before he knew it, Crowley was lying on the couch with his cock squashed against Aziraphale’s firm thighs, arse in the air, as he braced his weight on the elbows he’d planted on the armrest. He felt frayed, uneasy, yet almost unbearably turned on by that feeling of delicious vulnerability.

He hung his head between his shoulders and waited for Aziraphale to begin.

“I’m going to hit your bottom with the flat of my hand, now,” Aziraphale explained, quiet and oddly subdued. “You know how to stop me if you need to. Otherwise, you’ll take your punishment and use it as a reminder: this is what happens when you disappoint me. Do you understand me?”

A question. Crowley knew that Aziraphale would be expecting an answer.

“Yes,” he said, low and strangled. Did he want this to stop? He wasn’t sure. He’d wanted this, he still did, but not like that. He couldn’t rightly say what that meant, though. But he didn’t want to disappoint Aziraphale again. Better take his punishment and make him proud.

(There was something wrong there, in that reasoning, Crowley was dimly certain of it. But he couldn’t rightly tell what that was. Something Aziraphale had told him before, maybe. Something about not soldiering on, something about limits. Oh, it didn’t really matter. Making Aziraphale happy was more important than that, surely.)

“Very well.”

Crowley heard a rustle of clothes, and as he took a peek from over his shoulder he saw Aziraphale push the right sleeve of his sweater up to his elbow, then thumb open the cufflink of the crisp white shirt he wore underneath. Crowley swallowed thickly at the naked flesh being slowly revealed to his hungry eyes as Aziraphale slowly (and showily) rolled up his shirtsleeve, baring the firm shape of his forearm, thick and deliciously muscled and covered by the softest, most invisible down.

“Eyes forward, Crowley,” Aziraphale chided him, but not before Crowley had got his fill. Heat was simmering under his skin as he obeyed, body suddenly keyed up and primed to be handled as his flesh broke up in goosebumps.

“I’m going to start, now,” Aziraphale quietly informed him, right before a slapping sound broke the silence of the flat and a sharp spike of something straddling the line between pain and pleasure snapped through Crowley’s body. He felt a plume of heat bloom on his arse, right where Aziraphale’s strong hand had connected with his flesh, but he couldn’t exactly tell whether he’d hit the meat of his cheek or a little lower, somewhere on the top of his left thigh. He didn’t know if he liked it, exactly, but his cock didn’t seem to share his doubts as it twitched helplessly against Aziraphale’s thigh.

The next touch was much lighter, a calming pressure on the top of Crowley’s spine. The tenderness of it, after Aziraphale’s cold disappointment, hit Crowley as hard as a blow.

“More? Less?” Aziraphale asked, voice low and uneven, almost cracking. “Just right?”

“Just right,” Crowley answered, voice quivering with a relief so violent it brought him back from wherever place he’d ended up drifting. They _were_ playing, and that was the way Aziraphale thought Crowley wanted to be punished–chided like a misbehaving child, because that was how Aziraphale had read Crowley’s request over the phone. He ought to say something, he knew. He ought to. But as the next blow hit his defenceless bare arse, he felt the heat of it slithering up his spine, pleasure unspooling in his belly as his hole clenched around nothing and his shoulders shivered in helpless delight.

Oh, that was so lovely, so _good_. They needed to have a talk about everything that had come before, but that, that feeling of lying in Aziraphale’s lap without knowing how or when the next blow was going to hit, vulnerable and completely in Aziraphale’s power, oh, _that_ was as heady as any liquor he’d ever drunk, rushing in his blood like a tidal wave. Perhaps there was a way to spin it differently, there had to be, because the next hit felt just as delicious, pain and pleasure layering on top of each other, clashing and merging into another in an explosion of sensations that seemed to go straight to his cock.

He’d started to rock ever so slightly against Aziraphale’s thighs, groans tumbling from his lips at every hit, when Aziraphale grabbed a fistful of his hair and forced his head back in a bow. The pull was painful, probably not exactly pleasurable in any other setting, but he was so deliciously wound up that he trembled into it, pain shifting into pleasure as he slithered down his spine.

“You stop that _right now_,” Aziraphale hissed, eyes blue and terrible as they stared at him from above. There was something strained in his expression now, something obviously wrong, anger and something darker, something a little like despair, twisting in his face. “This is your punishment. You are _not_ to use it for your own pleasure.”

The disappointment bristling in Aziraphale’s displeased grimace washed over Crowley like a gush of icy water. His body stilled, pleasure shutting down abruptly as the mistreated flesh of his arse throbbed just as painfully as the pull at his scalp. He felt suddenly all there, the dizziness gone, his thoughts clear. He was about to say something, but Aziraphale let him go just as abruptly as he’d grabbed him, delivering a few sharp smacks to his arse before stopping completely.

The moment seemed to stretch, silent and still and suddenly fragile, like a cable pulled way too tight. Crowley was still trying to understand the shift in the mood, to adjust to it somehow, when he heard Aziraphale’s unsteady voice rose somewhere above him, barely more than a whisper.

“I... I can’t.” A stuttering breath, shallow and shuddering. “I’m sorry, darling. I have to stop. I just... I can’t.”

It took a long moment for those words to work their way through the disorientation that was still muddling Crowley’s thoughts, but the sniffle that came straight after shot through like a bullet. Crowley was turning to his side before his brain had fully caught up with the situation, taking in with wide eyes the sight of Aziraphale crying quietly above him. It was such a bizarre sight that for a moment Crowley could only stare, eyes following uncomprehendingly the big fat tears rolling down Aziraphale’s soft cheeks, but then he was scrambling on his knees, cock softening in a blink, confused and terrified and feeling his heart about to shatter at the sight of such absolute, obliterating misery being so plainly drawn all over that well-loved face.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley called, straddling Aziraphale’s thighs for balance and reaching almost timidly for his cheek. He had never been in such a situation, and he had absolutely no idea about whatever was going on or how to stop it. Aziraphale’s face was twisted in anguish, and it hurt, it hurt so terribly to witness it that Crowley was almost tempted to look away, if only to block the savage agony he felt at seeing Aziraphale in such pain.

The light touch of Crowley’s hand seemed enough to crack the stillness of the moment. Suddenly Aziraphale was sobbing–thick, heavy sobs that sounded almost deafening in the silence, as he grabbed Crowley’s hand and pressed it against his face.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale was blabbering, voice muffled by Crowley’s palm. “I’m sorry, I tried, I knew you wanted that, I tried, I swear, but I can’t, I can’t...” A hiccup, then an even more heart-rending weeping. “I disappointed you, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I tried, but I couldn’t, not after... I’m sorry love, I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, angel, c’mon, ‘s alright, I don’t mind,” Crowley babbled back, panic-stricken and horribly at a loss. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had started crying in front of him, even less whatever he’d done to fix it. No one had taken the time to explain to him how to dole out comfort, and no one, _no one_ had ever told him just how fucking much it would hurt to see someone he loved suffer like that. It was atrocious, unbearable. It throbbed and pounded and burnt. It clashed and clawed. It screamed.

Nothing Crowley was doing seemed to help, and the heart-rending sobs were making him frantic. He threw an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders and drew him closer, pulling him against his chest, and the desperately tender touch seemed to hit a switch–Aziraphale dropped Crowley’s hand and went for the whole of him, instead. Crowley allowed himself to be drawn into a crushing hug as Aziraphale locked his thick arms around Crowley’s waist, and cradled that full head of soft blond curls against his bony chest as Aziraphale wailed in the dark space between their bodies and soaked Crowley’s naked flesh with tears.

“Ssh, angel, ‘s alright, you’re alright, I’m here, ‘s ok, ‘s ok, I promise,” Crowley kept babbling, pressing his cheek against the top of Aziraphale’s head and feeling the heat of him on his skin. He sank his fingers into Aziraphale’s hair and held him closer, and closer, as though he could push him through sheer force of will into his chest and keep him there, warm and safe and loved.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I love you so much, and I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale was sobbing into Crowley’s chest, over and over and over, as he wept like his heart had been shattered past repair. Crowley pressed a string of kisses to the top of his head, dimly aware that he’d started to rock him at some point, and they were swaying lightly as Crowley tried to soothe that excruciating anguish the best he knew how.

“I love you too, angel, and ‘s alright, nothing’s happened, I swear,” Crowley murmured, between one bout of sobbing apologies and the next. “I’m here with you, ‘m alright, ‘m not disappointed, angel, for Christ’s sake, how could you even think that?”

And just as he said that out loud, just as Aziraphale crushed his face against Crowley’s chest and his fingers sank into Crowley’s naked back like claws, trying to hold him impossibly closer, Crowley realised that he’d thought just the same not ten minutes before, how enduring something he wasn’t really enjoying would’ve been better than putting a stop to it and risking disappointing Aziraphale. They really needed to talk things through, because if Aziraphale would indeed be mad at Crowley for soldiering on, as he’d put it a long time before, it had become very obvious by now that he didn’t really think the same applied to himself. Crowley had suspected that for quite some time, but it was getting too blatant to be dismissed. He could see very well now what Aziraphale had meant, labelling that kind of attitude as dangerous, and he had no intention to allow Aziraphale to hurt himself just because he couldn’t say no.

Because he really, really couldn’t. It wasn’t a brand new discovery, far from it, but Crowley was hit anew by the cold realisation of just how little power Aziraphale had to deny him anything. The one time he’d put his foot down had been when his family got involved, and even then, he’d tried begging and cajoling before finally snapping. Crowley couldn’t help but wonder how deeply Aziraphale’s need to make people happy run, and how many had taken advantage of that through the years. How his family had taken advantage of that.

He gritted his teeth in a sneer, as cold fury mounted slowly but inexorably in his chest.

“I’m here, angel, I’m here,” he whispered, now that Aziraphale’s unendurable begging for forgiveness had toned down to wordless sobs. “I’m here, and you’re alright, we both are.”

“You don’t understand,” Aziraphale finally said, the first intelligible words that were not desperate pleas leaving his mouth. He was still crying, that much was obvious, but he’d calmed down enough to speak in proper sentences, clear enough if broken by sobs. “I told my family we weren’t together anymore. I told them we’d broken up.”

There was such abject misery in Aziraphale’s voice that all Crowley could do was to hold him closer, pressing his lips to the top of his head and breathing in the soothing, familiar scent of Aziraphale’s skin. He should’ve felt terrible hearing that, he imagined, but in truth he was more confused than upset.

“Why?” he asked, carefully probing around the wound. His calm, gentle voice only made Aziraphale cry harder.

“Because I’m a coward,” he sobbed, face pressed so tight against Crowley’s chest that Crowley actually had to strain to make out his words. “Oh, Crowley, the _things_ they were saying about you, so unkind, and so untrue. I couldn’t... I couldn’t listen. It was so horrible. So I said that we’d broken up, that there was no need for them to speak that way of you.” A wail, deep and trembling and heartbreaking. Crowley held him tighter, as though he could keep him together just with his hands, preventing him from crumbling in his grasp like a slab of sandstone. “I’m so sorry, Crowley. So sorry. I knew this was going to happen, but I thought... I thought that if you weren’t there maybe they’d just forget about you. They’d focus on something else that displeased them, and I wouldn’t have to listen to those words, I wouldn’t have to see you treated that way. I couldn’t, not again. The wedding had been bad enough, but now, now I just... I couldn’t.”

“I’ll fucking break Gabriel’s smarmy face, I swear,” Crowley growled, fury reaching a white-hot peak. He didn’t give a flying fuck about what Gabriel thought of him, or any of his arsehole siblings, for that matter. But no one could destroy Aziraphale so utterly and think they could get away with it. Family or no family.

“You shouldn’t need to,” Aziraphale cried, almost too quietly to be heard, misunderstanding completely the source of Crowley’s anger. “I should’ve been better. I should’ve defended you. But I couldn’t. And I knew I wouldn’t have been able to, and I didn’t want you to see me that way, I didn’t want... I didn’t want you to lose whatever kind of respect you might still have for me. That’s why I went alone. And when the moment came, I told them they were right. I told them we were ill-matched from the beginning, I told them everything they wanted to hear, just so they would finally _SHUT UP_.” He was weeping quietly now, almost silently, which broke Crowley’s heart just a little more. No place for Aziraphale to be loud in that shitty family of his, he supposed. “I’m so sorry, Crowley. I’m so terribly sorry.”

“Ssh, angel, ‘s alright,” Crowley whispered into those blond curls, stroking Aziraphale’s nape, his shoulders, anything he could reach, “you have nothing to be sorry about. It doesn’t matter.”

And it shocked Crowley, just a little, to realise that it really didn’t. He thought he’d be destroyed to hear that he wasn’t good enough for Aziraphale, that Aziraphale had been so embarrassed of him to lie about it to his family, but he just wasn’t. He didn’t care. He knew that Aziraphale loved him, he knew it in a way that no arsehole family and no words and no old traumas could ever change, he knew it deep into his skin, and whatever lie those tossers had forced Aziraphale to say, that was on them, not on Crowley. Aziraphale’s suffering was breaking his fucking heart, but nothing his arsehole siblings thought about him could touch Crowley anymore. It was a strange feeling, almost exhilarating–or it would’ve been, if Aziraphale’s pain wasn’t so effectively clawing at him.

“But it does,” Aziraphale sobbed, grabbing him just a bit tighter, “it does, because they made me feel _ashamed_ of you, and I just... I can’t... I _won’t_ stand for that, I won’t.” Crowley felt the tight grip Aziraphale had on him slacken a little, and was forced to pull back as Aziraphale lifted his head to look at him in the eyes. He looked wrecked, but his eyes were bright, and stony, the way they hardened when Aziraphale had taken a decision and there was no way in hell for anyone to sway him even a little. “I would do anything to be loved by my family, even after all these years, but I draw the line at you. I can’t... I don’t _want_ to lose you. Not for them, not for anyone else.”

Crowley framed those soft cheeks between his palms, thumbing away the tears. Aziraphale was still crying, but silently, quietly, his eyes puffy and brimming with such desperate love that Crowley felt something shatter in his chest. He pressed a soft, sweet kiss to Aziraphale’s brow, then pressed their foreheads together. The tenderness he felt for that man was all-consuming, devastating. Crowley slipped his fingers into soft curls and thumbed his cheeks ever so gently.

“You have nothing to be sorry about, angel,” he said again, slowly, gently, hoping that Aziraphale could hear just how much he meant that. “And you do what you think you have to do about your family. You were right. It’s no business of mine. And I don’t give a toss about any of them. But you’re not alone, angel. I’m with you, whatever happens. I love you, and you are not alone.”

Crowley felt more than see Aziraphale falling apart, tears gushing down his cheeks as he sobbed against Crowley’s lips, but Crowley held him close until it passed, their foreheads pressed together as he swallowed Aziraphale’s heartbreak until there was nothing left.

* * *

Crowley didn’t know how long they stayed like that, holding onto each other as Crowley gently rocked them. Long enough for him to register that he was still naked, even if his flat was anything but cold, and his arse was stinging in a way that while not exactly unpleasant, it surely wasn’t something it was wont to do on regular basis. Long enough for Aziraphale to cry his heart out, his anguished sobs tapering down into a more sedate sniffling. Crowley kissed his forehead, his eyes, his cheeks, then straightened up, cradling Aziraphale’s head against his chest while he looked tiredly for the clock above his desk. It was one of those minimalist things with neither hours nor notches marring the flat white surface, a far cry from Aziraphale’s brass grandfather clocks, but it was indeed good enough to inform him that it was well past midnight. It didn’t matter much to Crowley, who had slept through the morning, but Aziraphale had spent the entire day at work, before fording through their botched scene and having a nuclear meltdown. The poor man was probably knackered.

“Angel?” Crowley called, very softly, slackening his grip. Aziraphale lifted a tired, devastated face, watching Crowley with exhausted red-rimmed eyes. Crowley pressed a tender kiss against his brow. “What do we say about getting you into bed? You look done in.”

Aziraphale seemed to think about it for a moment, puffy eyes shifting and losing focus, before nodding slightly.

“I suppose you’re right. I’m sorry about... this. I truly am.”

“Oh, enough with those apologies of yours,” Crowley quipped, stroking his cheeks. “They’re kind of getting old.”

That seemed to bring a pale smile to Aziraphale’s colourless lips. It looked for a moment as though all the blood had rushed to his cheeks and his eyes, and there was nothing left for the rest of him. He looked almost feverish.

Crowley pressed another kiss to Aziraphale’s clammy forehead before twisting on his perch to fumble for the tissue box he kept on the coffee table. He grabbed it with slightly clumsy hands and offered it to Aziraphale, who plucked a tissue with a tired smile full of gratitude. Crowley kept petting his blond curls with the gentlest touch he knew as Aziraphale blew his nose, going through four tissues before sticking the bundle into his pocket and pressing his forehead against Crowley’s damp collarbone.

“Better?” Crowley whispered, nuzzling the top of Aziraphale’s head and stroking his nape.

Crowley heard him take a deep, shuddering breath, followed by a whooshing warm gust tickling the damp skin of Crowley’s chest. Then Aziraphale dipped his head in a small nod.

“Let’s go to bed, love.” It was only then, it seemed, that the reality of the situation truly hit him. He took in Crowley’s form, almost distractedly, before doing a double take as his eyes widened and a harrowed, guilty expression washed over his face. “Dear God. I forgot about you. I allowed you to take care of me, instead of getting you a modicum of aftercare. That’s... that’s beastly behaviour. I’m so sorry, love. Please, let me...”

“Oh, shush,” Crowley said, battling away the hands with which Aziraphale was already trying to urge Crowley off him. “No, you don’t get to feel guilty about that too. I don’t care about whatever you are told at Dom school. If my partner is having a breakdown, I’m not going to wait until he had his turn at pampering me before comforting him. I’m fine. You’re not. So don’t you dare start fretting about that too.”

“You’ve never been spanked,” Aziraphale reiterated, suddenly looking a lot more like his stubborn impossible self then he had a handful of second before. “And we’ve never had a scene like this one. However it ended. We should at least talk about it.”

Crowley was about to scoff at him and try once again to nudge him towards the ultimate goal of getting both of them into bed, but he paused. Aziraphale was right. They did need to talk about that scene. But surely not straight after Aziraphale’s breakdown. That was the sort of discussion that could keep, and the man deserved some peace of mind for the evening.

“Yes,” Crowley carefully agreed, “we do. But not now. It can wait until morning. Don’t you think?”

Aziraphale didn’t seem particularly convinced about that, but he did nod. Eventually.

“All right. But at least let me take a look at your bottom. I tried to go easy on you, but still...”

“Fine,” Crowley scoffed, throwing his hands in the air. “If you really want to leer at my arse, I won’t stop you.”

Climbing off Aziraphale’s lap turned out to be more difficult than he’d counted on, with how long his legs had been bent in the same position, but Crowley managed to get on his feet with minimum fuss. He even allowed Aziraphale to turn him around with devastatingly tender hands, shuddering a bit helplessly at the feeling of careful fingers stroking bruised, aching flesh.

“Well?” he bit out after a moment, trying to ignore the way his skin was breaking in goosebumps at the gentle examination. “Tell me, Doctor, will I live?”

He peered from over his shoulder as he heard Aziraphale’s snort, and felt immensely pleased with himself at the sight of a pale, tremulous smile on those lips.

“It would be better with some lotion, I think,” Aziraphale said, bending just enough to place a soft kiss upon Crowley’s tailbone. “I have some in my bag. Aloe. It should soothe the sting.”

That made Crowley’s brow climb up his forehead.

“You want to rub lotion on my arse,” he said, flat and disbelieving. Aziraphale merely shrugged.

“I’d like to, yes. If you’d rather not I won’t insist, of course, but it would make me happy.”

Crowley had at least ten very clever comebacks to that, but he held his tongue.

“If rubbing lotion on my arse will make you happy, well, you are more than welcome to have a go at it,” he couldn’t help but quip, snatching a soft chuckle from Aziraphale’s lips. He allowed himself to be pushed a little out of the way, so that Aziraphale had enough space to stand.

Aziraphale was barely on his feet that Crowley found himself engulfed into a crushing hug.

“I love you so dearly, my dove,” Aziraphale whispered into Crowley’s skin, lips pressed against his naked shoulder. “You are my very heart. My Crowley.”

It hit Crowley hard, and low, and unfairly deep, the love bristling in Aziraphale’s voice. He kissed Aziraphale’s cheek, feeling almost choked up as he put together something that could pass for a witty retort.

“’s just some cream on my arse, no need to get all teary-eyed about it.”

Aziraphale chuckled against Crowley’s shoulder, and looked up, framing Crowley’s cheeks in his palms. He kissed him on the lips, then, slow and chaste and so very tender. He kissed him again, and again, and again, until Crowley felt almost dizzy with it.

“You have the first turn in the bathroom, sweetheart,” Aziraphale said, suddenly taking charge in a way that struck Crowley as something between sweet and funny. “But don’t bother to get dressed. I want to take care of your bum first.”

“Doesn’t that make quite the picture,” Crowley drawled, dancing away from Aziraphale’s gentle fingers and scoffing pouts. “And don’t worry, I had no intention of getting dressed anyway. We have all the time in the world tomorrow. No need to keep you from molesting me in my sleep.” A beat, as Crowley assessed the moment with a furrowed brow. Maybe Aziraphale would rather not be shoved into a rather racy situation so soon after breaking down quite spectacularly in Crowley’s living room. “Unless you’d like it better if we kept something on tonight...?”

Crowley knew he’d struck a chord when he saw Aziraphale falter, brows scrunching up as he thought it over. He was getting better at it. Perhaps he could pat his own back later.

“You don’t need to,” Aziraphale eventually answered, somewhat sheepishly, “but I’d rather sleep in my pyjama. Just for tonight.”

“You don’t own me an explanation, angel,” Crowley said, picking up Aziraphale’s hand and kissing his fingertips. “You can sleep however you like in my bed. But I’ll take you up on your offer, if you really mean it. I’d rather sleep naked, if that’s alright with you. I want... I want to feel you close.”

“Of course I mean it, darling,” Aziraphale answered, voice low and obscenely tender. He freed his fingers from Crowley’s grasp and stroked his cheek. “Now go. It’s already late enough, and you must be freezing.”

“Fine, fine,” Crowley scoffed, heading towards the bathroom. When he came out, he found Aziraphale already in his pyjama, sitting on Crowley’s bed with a small tube in his hand.

Crowley lingered for a moment on the threshold, drinking in the sight. He could get used to a view like that. He really could. Titillating tube included.

“Here you are, darling,” Aziraphale greeted him, patting Crowley’s dark-blue quilt. He still looked a little out of place with his hideous tartan pyjama sitting on Crowley’s silk sheets, but Crowley liked it that way. He liked the idea of Aziraphale being draped on pretty much anything he owned. “Come here.”

Crowley felt a bit silly as he allowed Aziraphale to help him down, manhandling him on his belly, but he couldn’t really say he minded as he felt those wondrously soft hands trace the line of his spine, gently prodding at his arse. It was a tender touch, and subtly arousing, though he felt entirely too wiped-out to be able to get more than half-hard. He gave into it instead, sprawled out on his soft bedding with his head pillowed on his crossed arms, as he listened vaguely to the sound of slippery hands rubbing against one another. He sighed deeply when he felt those same hands gently cup the abused cheeks of his arse, whooshing breath hitting with a tingle the naked skin of his forearms, making the hairs stand on end.

“Does it hurt, love?” Aziraphale asked, gentle and subdued, as he spread the lotion in even circles all over Crowley’s bottom. He wasn’t just slathering Crowley’s skin with the stuff, he was rubbing it in, effectively massaging Crowley’s aching flesh. It felt... it felt lovely, actually. No one had ever massaged his arse before. Not like that, at least.

“A little,” Crowley mumbled, feeling a thick curtain of exhaustion drop on him as he allowed himself to relax. He realised vaguely that the last week had taken quite a toll on him, between his project and Aziraphale’s family and the rocky waters their relationship had been made to go through. That night had only been the last of a series of debilitating blows.

“This should help with the sting,” Aziraphale murmured, never faltering in his smooth, even strokes. Crowley felt the touch into the muscles, massaging away any tension he didn’t know he was holding down there. It felt oddly soothing, and very relaxing.

“’s... good,” Crowley muttered, “very good. You do this often?”

“Rubbing lotion on people’s bottoms?” Aziraphale chuckled. “Not really, no. I mean, I’ve done it before, obviously, but I don’t really make a habit of it.”

“You’d better not,” Crowley grumbled, “unless ‘s my arse. You can rub lotion on my arse as much as you want.”

That pulled a proper, honest laugh out of Aziraphale’s lips. Crowley smiled at the sound.

“I’ll make sure to treat you to it more often, then,” Aziraphale said, sobering up quickly. “Now get under the covers. You already feel way too cold. You’ll catch your death like that.”

Crowley mumbled something even he couldn’t understand, but under the covers he went. He heard Aziraphale pattering away on naked feet, and was already curled up on his side and half asleep as Aziraphale turned off the light and crawled into bed.

“Come here, angel,” Crowley mumbled, even as Aziraphale plastered his front against Crowley’s back. “Come closer.”

“I’m here, my sweet darling,” Aziraphale said, cradling Crowley against his chest and kissing the soft patch of skin behind his ear, “and I’m not going anywhere.”

Crowley sighed deeply into the pillow at the unbearable tenderness bristling in Aziraphale’s quiet voice, mind focusing on the feeling of Aziraphale’s body curled around his own as the warm whoosh of Aziraphale’s breath against his scalp turned slower, deeper. The fleece of Aziraphale’s pyjama was soft against bare skin, his body giving, but his arm was heavy were it pinned Crowley down, his hand gentle but as unmovable as a mountain against Crowley’s stomach. Crowley felt held, and safe, and cherished. He felt loved. And loved. And loved.

He clasped the hand pressed tight against his naked belly and allowed himself to drift, as something that was almost peace swept over him in a rumbling, cresting wave.


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely people!  
This chapter was a bit slower in the making than usual, but since it’s a proper monster (nearly 14k words) I truly hope it will be worth the wait. I’m finally starting to pull all the threads together, and on one side it’s a damn wonderful feeling, on the other I’m terrified of losing some of those threads along the way, which makes for a particularly fussy author.  
As usual, I’d like to send buckets of love to [uponwhatgrounds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uponwhatgrounds/pseuds/uponwhatgrounds), who gifted me with yet another absolutely GORGEOUS [illustration](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26406721/chapters/67529696). I can scarcely believe all the stunning art they have been showering me with for the better part of this story. It blows my mind every time, and I’m so, so grateful for it.  
And I’m so grateful to all of you, who are still reading and leaving such marvelous comments. We are two chapters and one epilogue to the end now, and I can’t stress enough how vital your support has been during the writing of this 300k+ words monster. I love you all, very much.  
I’ll leave you to the chapter, now <3

The room was awash in soft morning light when Crowley blinked his eyes open. That didn’t really cue him in on the time, with how thick his curtains were, but he could make an educated guess and estimate something between eight and nine o’clock.

It took him a bit longer to reconcile the familiar sight of his own bedroom with the equally familiar, if not exactly in that context, sturdiness of Aziraphale’s body lying comfortably under his own. They’d moved during the night, and Crowley had ended up sprawled on his belly with his head pillowed on Aziraphale’s firm chest. He rubbed his stubbly cheek against the fleece-covered surface lying directly under him, trying to absorb the heat of Aziraphale’s body. He felt loose, boneless, almost impossibly relaxed. He luxuriated in the weight of Aziraphale’s arm across his back, cradling him close, and the loose grasp of a stocky hand curled lazily around one his buttocks.

There was a vague sort of soreness lingering there, like a phantom ache, barely skimming the edge of his awareness. A few smacks across his arse weren’t apparently enough to translate into anything more long-lasting than that, and Crowley was surprised to find a little disappointment laced to that thought. He wondered what it would be like, to wake up in Aziraphale’s arms as the sting of their previous activities still smarted deep into his flesh. Crowley had always loved to feel the ache of a thorough fuck the day after, both as a reminder of previous pleasures and a pleasure in itself. He had an inkling that the sting of a good spanking would feel even better in the morning.

Despite the unmitigated disaster that had been their last scene, Crowley found himself considering quietly, even keenly, a repeated performance. Perhaps Aziraphale would be amenable to try again, at some point. But only if they could find a way for both to enjoy it, thoroughly. Crowley didn’t think his heart could bear the sight of Aziraphale breaking down in his arms again. It was too bloody painful.

He shifted slightly in Aziraphale’s hold, feeling the drag of that hideous tartan fleece against his entire naked body, until he could sank his nose into Aziraphale’s bare neck and breathe him in.

Oh, the scent of him. Crowley had never really thought about it before, but he loved the way Aziraphale smelt in the morning, when his cologne had faded just enough to let the natural scent of his skin trickle through. Crowley curled up even closer, distantly aware of his thickening cock, and slipped a hand under the hem of Aziraphale’s pyjama’s top, where he was soft and warm and lovely.

Crowley stayed like that for a while, listening to Aziraphale’s soft snores, feeling the steady thudding of Aziraphale’s heart under his cheek. It felt so wondrously soothing, that quiet. Even his neglected cock gave up eventually, softening against Aziraphale’s thigh, as Crowley took a moment to soak in Aziraphale’s closeness. He’d missed him so much, and now he was there, solid and warm and wearing that maddening tartan fleece that always tickled Crowley’s nose something awful.

Bliss, he thought.

Aziraphale was still fast asleep when Crowley slipped out of bed, obviously wiped out by their rather eventful evening. Crowley watched him snore away for a moment, toying with the idea of placing a few kisses upon his brows, his lips, but eventually deciding against it. The poor man deserved his rest, and Crowley would have plenty of time later to kiss him to his heart’s content. He hit the shower instead, taking the time to dig out the douche he always kept in a drawer near the sink and clean himself up thoroughly. He wasn’t sure where the day was headed, but a little preparation didn’t hurt.

He was standing in front of the mirror with shaving foam slathered on his cheeks when he caught sight of Aziraphale’s things, carefully laid out on a small shelf by the huge mirror embedded in the cabinet hanging over the sink. Crowley had cleared out a space specifically for Aziraphale during the weekend, and it warmed him treacherously deep to see that Aziraphale had taken him up on his silent offer. It felt right, to see a concrete, physical sign of Aziraphale’s presence in his life right there, in his house, the same way it had felt right to see his own stuff slowly encroaching more and more space in Aziraphale’s bathroom. It felt comforting.

Crowley smiled at the small crowded shelf a moment longer, then he towelled himself off and padded on silent feet back to the bedroom. Aziraphale didn’t even stir as Crowley slipped into his favourite briefs (black and slick and riding very low on his hips), which was a tragedy, truly, with the way they hugged his arse, but Crowley would rather keep it that way. He threw his robe over his naked shoulders and grabbed his slippers, before sliding out of the bedroom just as quietly as he’d tiptoed in and closing the door gently behind him. He lingered in the corridor long enough to wear his slippers and belt his robe before heading to the kitchen to put together some breakfast.

It was well past ten when Crowley walked back into the bedroom, carrying one of those ridiculous bed trays he would’ve never even dreamt about buying if he hadn’t been so hopelessly smitten. And yes, he’d got the hideous thing appositely for Aziraphale’s visit, and he would never admit even under torture to being stupidly thrilled at the idea of surprising Aziraphale with breakfast in bed. It wasn’t like he’d been thinking about it ever since their fateful weekend in the country, after all.

Aziraphale was still snoozing away as Crowley gently set the tray on the floor by the door and sat down quietly on the edge of the bed. The man had always loved some shuteye, but he’d never been a particularly heavy sleeper. He had to be completely exhausted to have snored through Crowley leaving the bed.

Aziraphale’s cheek felt deliciously warm under Crowley’s palm, as he stroked it ever so gently. His face was completely slack in his sleep, and Crowley had to keep going for a while before Aziraphale finally stirred. His eyes looked unfocused and still tired as he blinked them open, taking Crowley in.

“Oh,” Aziraphale mumbled, instinctively grabbing Crowley’s hand with fumbling fingers and nuzzling into his palm. “Good morning, love.”

“Good morning, angel,” Crowley answered, leaning down to kiss him softly on the lips. “Did you sleep well?”

“Hmm,” Aziraphale mumbled, rolling away from the light coming from the window and dragging Crowley’s hand with him. “Yes, actually. I think I needed this.” He pawed at Crowley, trying to drag him back into bed with him. “I think I needed to be close to you.”

Crowley chuckled under his breath at Aziraphale’s stubborn tugging, but eventually allowed Aziraphale to pull him down and hold him tight. There was a desperate yearning bristling in that touch, though, an unpleasant reminder of the night before, and Crowley cradled Aziraphale against his chest with matching fierceness, fingers sunk deep into thick curls as he pressed kiss after kiss to the top of his head. He felt Aziraphale’s shuddering sigh into his ribcage, like a faltering in his heartbeat, and hummed deep into his throat as he rubbed his cheek against Aziraphale’s cotton-tuft hair. His grip was just as ferociously tender as the clasp of Aziraphale’s arms around his waist, as the soft kisses Aziraphale was pressing with something akin to adoration to the swat of hairy skin left bare by the loose collar of his robe. Aziraphale never really grew a stubble during the night (nothing that could be easily spotted, at least), but Crowley could feel the barely-there drag of bristly hairs against his chest. He tried to push even closer, slipping his thigh between Aziraphale’s legs, and was reminded with a start about the quilt still swaddling Aziraphale’s body from the waist down.

That seemed to turn down a notch the intensity of the moment, somehow. Crowley slackened his grip and pulled ever so gently at Aziraphale’s curls to nudge him away from his chest, and rewarded him with a soft kiss to his lips when he tipped his head back and blinked up at Crowley with owlish blue eyes. Aziraphale followed him as Crowley pulled back, kissing his lips again, slow and through, and licking inside his mouth in a lazy drag. Crowley felt the kiss to his toes, soft and thrilling and subtly possessive, and tangled his fingers in Aziraphale’s curls as he kissed him back.

The kiss ended just as slowly as it had started, with a lingering press of lips against lips. Crowley stroked gently Aziraphale’s cheek as he pulled back, thumbing the corner of that soft mouth as he blinked his eyes open. Aziraphale stared back at him with lids at half mast, a stocky hand caressing the column of Crowley’s neck, the ball of his shoulder, his sinewy bicep. It was a surprisingly chaste touch; an odd follow-up to that kiss, deep and deliciously charged. But Aziraphale seemed content to look at Crowley’s face and pet him with gentle fingers, as though he was relearning Crowley’s shape somehow.

Crowley smiled at him, leaning forward to press another soft kiss to Aziraphale’s lips before pulling himself definitely out of range.

“Are you hungry, angel?” Crowley asked, trying to keep his voice as low and unobtrusive as possible. “I made you some breakfast, if you’d like to be a complete hedonist and eat it in bed.”

The news seemed to astonish Aziraphale somehow, as though Crowley didn’t make him breakfast more often than not.

“You did?” Aziraphale said, taking a peek from over Crowley’s shoulder and obviously catching sight of the laden tray. “Oh, Crowley. You didn’t have to.”

Crowley shrugged, extricating himself quite unenthusiastically from Aziraphale’s grip and sitting up.

“I was awake,” he said, as though he hadn’t actually planned that, “and don’t get too excited, it’s just some toast with jam and butter. I didn’t feel much like eating a cooked breakfast today. But I could make something for you, if you wanted...”

“Don’t be silly, that’s absolutely perfect,” Aziraphale said, pushing himself up and slipping out of bed with remarkable speed for someone who had been deeply asleep not five minutes before. “I need to go to the loo, but you hold that thought.”

Crowley chuckled to himself as Aziraphale disappeared, retrieving the tray and laying it very carefully on top of the bed. It didn’t take long for Aziraphale to come back, all soft smiles and bright eyes, and they ended up sitting on Crowley’s thick quilt with the tray between them, sipping orange juice and eating toast that Aziraphale had carefully slathered with way more butter and jam than what was strictly necessary.

“I truly hope I’m not getting sticky crumbles all over your very expensive sheets, dear,” Aziraphale fussed at some point, but Crowley simply waved his worries away.

“Just eat your breakfast, angel,” he said, voice brimming with affection and utterly unconcerned about such. Aziraphale rewarded him with a smile so tender that Crowley felt it deep into his belly, and could only smile back like the old fool he was.

The conversation never really picked up as they ate, but it was for the best. Crowley didn’t feel much like nattering anyway, and he wasn’t about to broach more serious issues over toast and butter. But the air was terse between them, that intolerable awkwardness melted away, and the quiet felt familiar, soothing in a way.

“How are you feeling, darling?” Aziraphale asked towards the end, ostentatiously buttering up the last slice of bread for Crowley as though he wasn’t entirely focused on his answer. “Are you still aching?”

Crowley was well versed enough by now in Aziraphale’s circuitous attempts at tackling problems to be very aware of what he was actually asking. He took a moment to think, then shrugged and plucked the buttered-up slice of bread from Aziraphale’s hands before he could drown it in strawberry jam.

“Not enough,” Crowley answered airily, secretly studying Aziraphale’s reactions with the same sort of attention Aziraphale was focusing on him. “You’ll have to put your back into it, next time.”

Something flashed in Aziraphale’s face for a moment, something very close to a smile, before being taking over completely by a frown. He looked troubled, and thoughtful, a combination that Crowley didn’t like one bit. Aziraphale opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again, looking away.

“Of course, love,” he said simply, diverting his attention to the tray and buttering up a slice for himself. The mood had shifted again, and Crowley was none too pleased about the direction it was taking.

“How are you, angel?” he asked, very gently.

Aziraphale kept his eyes studiously trained on his buttered-up bread, carefully cleaning the dull knife on one of the sides before tackling the jam jar.

“I’m all right,” he answered, oddly guarded, before letting go a deep sight and deflating somehow. “I’m tired, darling. I slept all night and I’m still tired. And I woke up with a horrible headache that won’t leave me alone.”

“Let me get you some painkillers,” Crowley offered, already halfway off the bed. “I’ll be right back. Won’t be a jiffy.”

“Sit down, love,” Aziraphale sighed, but there was smile hiding there somewhere. “Finish your breakfast, first. My headache is not going anywhere.”

“That’s the problem,” Crowley grumbled, but he did perch his bony arse on the edge of the bed and ate his toast, though wolfing it down would’ve been a more accurate statement. He ignored Aziraphale’s disapproving glance and washed it all down with whatever was left of his orange juice, then sprung up on his feet and all but sprinted towards the bathroom. He was back less than a minute later with some tablets and a half-empty bottle of orange juice.

“Here, angel,” he said, filling up Aziraphale’s glass. Aziraphale finished his toast and then swallowed two tablets with a gulp of fresh juice.

“Thank you,” he said, very softly. Warmth washed over Crowley in a nearly overwhelming wave. Aziraphale still seemed awfully resistant to the concept of being tended to, and Crowley felt the pride of being allowed to care for him even more keenly for the exception that it was.

“Don’t mention it, angel,” he answered, low and a little subdued. Aziraphale smiled at him, eyes unbearably tender as he stroked Crowley’s cheek. He looked beyond exhaustion, face pale and marked with lines that seemed to burrow into his flesh just a little deeper. There were dark shadows under his eyes, and the brightness of his gaze seemed a bit dulled.

“Are you really alright?” Crowley asked, unable to keep the worry from his voice.

“Of course, love,” Aziraphale gently answered. “I’m going to take a bath now, if that’s all right with you. A good soak and I’ll be as good as new.”

Crowley blinked at him, feeling illogically disappointed with himself.

“I don’t have a tub, angel,” he said, getting a look of undiluted dismay for his trouble.

“You don’t?” Aziraphale said, in a tone that let come through very clearly how the concept of a bathroom without a tub had never even been a possibility in his mind.

“You’ve already seen my bathroom,” Crowley replied, brows climbing up to his hairline. “You didn’t notice?”

“Not really, no.”

There was something very close to a _pout_ on Aziraphale’s lips, something so shocked it was almost offended, and in another occasion it would’ve been hard not to burst into laughter. But Crowley knew very well what Aziraphale had been too preoccupied with to notice something as inconsequential as the lack of a tub in his bathroom, and the thought was enough to tamp down quite effectively the hilarity of the situation.

“I assure you,” Crowley answered, still unable to help the little smirk dancing on his lips, “a nice steamy shower without having to ration the hot water because the heating system was built by men in tall hats will be just as good.”

“I’ll have you know that my heating system was built in the seventies,” Aziraphale grumbled, the familiar banter working like a charm to dissipate the very last tension bristling in the background. “And it only takes half an hour for the tank to be filled again.”

“Sure, angel, whatever you say. Now go and grab that shower. You’ll have plenty of time later to gush about how right I was.”

That quip got him a thoroughly dirty look, but Crowley merely offered his most obnoxious smug grin in return.

“Fine,” Aziraphale grumbled, slowly getting back on his feet. “Let me help you with the dishes first.”

“I don’t think so. Go get your shower, angel. You are no good to anyone in the morning before a shower.”

_Or a nice orgasm_, Crowley thought, and almost said, before deciding against it. The mood wasn’t right for that sort of poking; not yet, at least. The glare he got for his trouble made him wonder whether Aziraphale had plucked the thought clean from his mind, though.

“All right,” Aziraphale conceded, heading off. “But you _will_ let me help with something, later on. I’m not going to let you spoil me rotten just because I’m your guest.”

“Yeah, we’ll think about it,” Crowley airily replied. Aziraphale didn’t even dignify that with an answer.

Crowley used the time Aziraphale spent in the shower to clean up, clearing the bed from the dishes and carefully airing and hoovering the sheets to make sure that no crumb was hiding in there ready to pounce when they lowered their guard (Crowley liked the _idea_ of breakfast in bed; he wasn’t too keen on the reality of sleeping in crumbs). Then he moved to the living room, where his clothes were still tidily folded upon the coffee table. He didn’t think Aziraphale would appreciate the reminder of their botched scene, so he took care of them, placing his garishly wrapped present in their place.

Crowley was busy brewing a cup of coffee for himself and heating up some water in the kettle for Aziraphale’s tea when the man himself sauntered in the kitchen. He was neatly dressed in pressed pants, shirt and bowtie, and was carefully cradling two tall bottles in his hands. They were made of a glass so dark it was almost black, but when the light hit them just right Crowley could see something sloshing within the neck.

“I brought you some wine, as a gift,” Aziraphale said, a little sheepishly, “but I completely forgot about it. The poor things spent the night in my bag.”

“I’m sure it will taste just as good,” Crowley chuckled. He felt a little underdressed in his messily belted robe, but Aziraphale had forgone his waistcoat and had tartan slippers on his feet, which was pretty much as casual as he got without lumbering about in his pyjama. “’s red, isn’t it? Red doesn’t need to be chilled.”

“Hm. Where should I leave them?”

Crowley chuckled again.

“I don’t have a fancy wine rack hiding in a corner, like you, but they’ll be just fine here.” He plucked the bottles from Aziraphale’s hands and placed them in a cupboard, where they would be dry and far from the sunlight. “’s not like they’ll stay here for long, anyway.”

The kettle chose that moment to boil, but Crowley still managed to catch the wicked spark in Aziraphale’s smile before turning towards the counter. He was pouring the hot water in Aziraphale’s mug when he felt two strong arms circle his waist, a soft kiss being pressed against his shoulder.

“I did wonder about the lack of coffee on your tray,” Aziraphale said, pressing his front against Crowley’s back in a sturdy, deceptively soft line. Crowley recognised easily the sandalwood scent of Aziraphale’s aftershave, but there was another smell lingering underneath–the familiar pine fragrance of Crowley’s shower gel. He felt a spike of naked possessiveness surging in his chest at the thought of Aziraphale smelling like him. He leant back, allowing Aziraphale to take some of his weight, and felt the kisses Aziraphale pressed to his nape in his chest, and lower, slithering straight into his cock.

“I got some of that tea you like, I thought I could make you a cuppa.”

“You _are_ spoiling me,” Aziraphale murmured, slipping a hand under the lapel of Crowley’s robe and palming his belly. His hand felt huge and scorching hot against bare skin, his body solid and deliciously strong against Crowley’s back. He nuzzled into Crowley’s hair, and Crowley sighed, closing his eyes for a moment to revel into the touch. They stayed like that until their drinks were ready, then they carried their respective mugs to the living room.

It wasn’t long before Aziraphale spotted the present.

“What’s that?” he asked, sitting on the couch very carefully to avoid spilling his concoction of milk and sugar with just a touch of tea to top it up. Crowley didn’t have any fancy little cup with a bone-china saucer to offer, but Aziraphale hadn’t seemed to mind the thick black mug with the Queen logo painted over in white that Crowley had thrust into his hands.

“’s for you, angel,” Crowley mumbled, taking a seat by his side and covering his sudden nerves with a sip of coffee. “Merry Christmas and all that.”

“Oh, darling,” Aziraphale sighed, smiling with heartbreaking tenderness at Crowley in a way that hit him harder than a blow. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know. I wanted to.” Another sip of coffee. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

That got him a sharp, shrewd glance, which Crowley pretended not to notice.

“Of course, love,” Aziraphale purred, placing his cup on one of the fashionable slate coasters that littered Crowley’s coffee table and picking up the package. He inspected it closely, slowly, and Crowley felt a thrill slither down his spine at the way Aziraphale was assessing his work.

“This looks so lovely. Did you do it yourself?”

“Yes,” Crowley answered, nervously licking his lips. “’m not very good at it, though. Learnt from some video on YouTube.”

“It’s wonderful, darling,” Aziraphale hummed, his voice low and dripping with such thick approval that Crowley felt it trickle under his skin. “Even more so for the fact that you went through the trouble to learn how to do it just for me. How sweet you are. Such a good, lovely boy.”

Crowley felt his heartbeat speed up at the praise, shivers tumbling down his spine. His cock was stiffening into his pants, and he was rather certain that the robe did very little to hide the thickening bulge. It probably looked obscene.

“’s nothing, angel. Will you open it?”

“It’s not _nothing_,” Aziraphale chided him, even as he stroked the garish red-and-green wrap with a slow drag of his thumb that had no business looking that lewd. “It’s beautiful, and you put so much effort into it. I’m very proud of you, darling. You are always so good to me.”

Crowley’s throat tried to bring about some sort of sentence then, but it turned out to be something just south of an unintelligible string of consonants. Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind, as he carefully tore off the wrapping and opened the box hiding underneath. His eyes were as bright as stars as he looked at the teapot, pleasure coming off him in waves.

“Oh, this is perfect,” he gasped, turning the pot this and that way to better examine it. “You know me so well. I’ll have to buy some proper loose leaf tea now, instead of being a lazy bum and using the bags.”

“Yeah, ‘s what I thought,” Crowley managed to grind out, clinging to his cup of coffee for dear life as a wave of heat so thick it nearly choked him washed over him. Aziraphale’s pleasure was intoxicating, tingling under his skin like electricity. It felt so intense, so all-consuming, that Crowley thought for a moment he was going to pass out–and what a picture he would make, swooning like a Victorian maiden while sporting an erection that would put many a picket to shame.

Aziraphale’s smile was so wide and delighted and overwhelmingly warm it could swallow up the world. He carefully placed the teapot on the coffee table before leaning forward, cupping Crowley’s cheek in his palm.

“Thank you, love,” he said, pressing a gentle kiss to Crowley’s lips. “It’s wonderful.”

“’s ok, angel, no big deal,” Crowley choked out, knowing that the heat had to have reached his cheeks by now. He wondered for a moment if Aziraphale would be amenable to slip a hand into his robe and palm his aching cock (if they would end up fucking on his couch, which was something he was particularly keen to try out), but then he remembered the night before, and everything that had led to that, and felt that impossible heat recede just enough for him to be able to think. He’d already goaded Aziraphale into sex when they should’ve been talking, because that was the only way he knew to establish intimacy, and look where that had brought them. Horny Crowley wasn’t particularly bright, but he also wasn’t stupid enough to make the same mistake twice.

He pulled back a little, just enough to be able to look into Aziraphale’s hooded, hungry eyes. He felt something so charged up it had fangs spark through his nervous system at the sight, and his resolve wavered for a moment before he strengthened it and forged through.

“Do you want to talk about yesterday, angel?” he said, low and a little breathless, but much firmer he’d hoped he would be.

That seemed to work just about like throwing a bucket of icy water at the man. Aziraphale pulled back, spine straightening up, as his face snapped straight from charged-up erotic arousal to some sort of stony dismay. There was a deeply unhappy, deeply uncomfortable grimace twisting his lips that squeezed painfully Crowley’s heart, and Aziraphale’s eyes had barely blinked twice before shifting from warm and bright to hard and determined.

It hit Crowley, then, that Aziraphale had been dreading that conversation and tried to postpone it the best he could. Crowley wasn’t sure why he found the thought so surprising. Perhaps because he was used to Aziraphale taking the lead in that sort of stuff, but again, it wasn’t exactly the first time the man had struggled to tackle a difficult topic. Maybe Aziraphale was just as bad at opening up as he was.

“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale said, in a neutral, even voice that killed completely whatever was left of Crowley’s erection. “Forgive me, I forgot myself for a moment. You’re right. We should talk about what happened, first.”

The violent shift in the mood caught Crowley unprepared. He hadn’t exactly expected Aziraphale to be overjoyed at the idea of picking at his scabbed wounds, but he was a little taken aback by the pervading sorrow and shame and guilt that flitted through Aziraphale’s face like flashes of light. He had turned away from Crowley, and was staring with downcast eyes at the hands he had meticulously folded into his lap.

The silence stretched on, as Crowley struggled to find something to say that could shatter that unbearable stillness. Eventually, it fell to Aziraphale to take the lead. Like always.

“I apologise about what happened,” he said, voice stiffening even further. “I shouldn’t have played with you while being, ah, emotionally... unstable. It was extremely irresponsible behaviour on my part. I understand your disappointment, and I’ll try to do better, next time.”

There was a familiar note to that speech, something Crowley had heard before.

_I’m sorry. For... that. Whatever that was. I don’t usually... break down like that. I ruined our evening, I think._

Two peas in a pod they were. Feeling guilty and ashamed for caving under stress. It was strange, and not strange all at once, to realise something so obvious only because the words were coming from Aziraphale, this time.

“I’m not disappointed, angel,” Crowley said, reaching for Aziraphale’s hand with a tentative touch. “And you don’t need to make it up to me or anything. I shouldn’t have pushed.”

“You didn’t push. I’m perfectly capable of saying no, and I should’ve said something instead of trying anyway.” He took a deep sight, allowing Crowley to slip his hand between his own, clasped in his lap. “It’s dangerous, playing while being emotionally compromised. It can bring up things that are not pleasant, let alone safe.”

“You made a mistake, angel. It happens. It’s alright.”

“No, it’s not.” A flash of blue eyes, as Aziraphale finally glanced up. “You are my submissive. I’m responsible for your safety when we play. I endangered you with a foolish decision, and that’s inadmissible.”

“You are blowing this out of proportion, angel. Look at me. I’m fine.”

“And what if you weren’t?” Aziraphale exploded, pulling away from Crowley’s touch as though it had burnt him. “What if something I did caused you pain? Caused you suffering? I can’t stand the thought of betraying your trust like that. I can be better, I know I can. I won’t make the same mistake again.”

There were open wounds there, deep and jagged and bleeding, and Crowley realised with something akin to shock why exactly safewords were so important. Aziraphale had tried to explain it to him, but those had been just words, and it had taken them some time to hit home. Safewords were meant as a failsafe, of course, to put a stop to something that was becoming too much, too raw, too uncomfortable, but what Crowley had failed to understand was that they didn’t necessarily protect only the person who used them–they protected their partner, too. They shielded them from the impossible, unbearable guilt of doing something that wasn’t wanted, that wasn’t enjoyed. They protected them from the trauma of unwittingly committing abuse.

Crowley had failed at that, failed at protecting Aziraphale. He had allowed a scene he was not enjoying to carry on instead of putting a stop to it, and he realised with mounting dread that he would have to tell Aziraphale, that the moment was rushing upon them hard and fast. That he would have to look at Aziraphale in the eye and see the horror there, the devastating guilt, at the thought of having done something to Crowley that was unwanted, that hadn’t brought him any pleasure.

“Angel,” he started, then stopped, trying to find the right words for what he wanted to say. “Angel, I’m not a child. You are not responsible for a scene gone awry any more than I am.”

“I am your Dominant, I should know...”

“No, you don’t get to use that card with me,” Crowley interrupted him, the weight of Aziraphale’s shame, of Aziraphale’s grief, crushing him like a concrete block. “I was upset, too, and even worse–I knew _you_ were upset. But I pushed anyway. I’m not less responsible than you for what happened just because I’m your submissive.”

Aziraphale seemed about to reject Crowley’s reasoning on the spot, but then he settled, chewing on it for a short while.

“Fine,” he answered eventually, words pushing through between clenched teeth. “I’m the one with more experience in this sort of play, then. I should’ve known better.”

Crowley hesitated, uncertain on how to go about that. They were getting closer to the breaking point, he could sense it, and he didn’t rightly know whether to push or to give ground. But Aziraphale was a stubborn man, just as stubborn as Crowley was. Perhaps a little push was the best way to go forward.

“Then you should have,” he said, carefully measuring his words. “Why haven’t you?”

Aziraphale flinched at that, as though Crowley had leant forward and stricken him straight in the face. There was a wounded look in his eyes, shame so thick Crowley could almost taste it.

“I made a mistake. It won’t happen again.”

“No, that’s not it. It wasn’t a mistake, and you know it.”

Aziraphale’s eyes were huge and incredulous as they flashed at Crowley. The betrayal lurking there cut deeper than the lash of a whip.

“Are you saying I’ve done that _on purpose_? That I wilfully endangered you?”

“Of course not. But I know why you did it. And so do you.”

“I don’t understand what you’re aiming at,” Aziraphale said, pulling back even further. He looked away, eyes downcast, jaw clenched. “I wasn’t trying to disappoint you, and most assuredly wasn’t planning on having a breakdown in the middle of a scene.”

“Why do you think you have disappointed me?” Crowley said, very gently. “Did I disappoint you when I had a breakdown in your living room and you ended up holding me for hours?”

“Of course not!” Aziraphale bit back. “And that was my fault, too. I played with you without your knowing, and you had a bad drop. Another poor decision.”

“But why did you do it, angel?” Crowley insisted, heartbroken at the dejection and self-hatred bristling in Aziraphale’s voice but unwilling to let go now that they were finally getting somewhere. “Have you ever asked yourself that?”

“Of course I have,” Aziraphale hissed through clenched teeth. “I’m a substandard, incompetent Dom. Is that what you want to hear? I shouldn’t be trusted with submissives. I shouldn’t be trusted with you. But I’m selfish. I wanted you to much to let you go.”

“Oh, angel,” Crowley sighed, feeling something cracking, something bleeding in his chest. “Is that really what you think?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer, and Crowley shifted closer, daring cup that soft cheek with his palm, pulling Aziraphale towards him. Aziraphale’s eyes had a thin shine to them, like tears he refused to spill, and he looked shattered to the bone. His mouth was twisted into a grimace, as though he was fencing in sobs behind gritted teeth. He looked broken-hearted, and full of shame, and impossibly lonely.

Crowley let out a small sigh, pressing their foreheads together, trying to bear the impossible weight of Aziraphale’s sorrow.

“You are not incompetent, angel,” he whispered, very low, very soft. “I enjoy everything we do together. You take care of me so well, and you love me so much. Every mistake you made was because you wanted me to be happy.” Crowley pulled back, slowly, until he could look Aziraphale in the eye. “That’s your only fault, angel. You can’t say no.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Aziraphale hissed. He tried to pull back, but Crowley held him still, hands framing that cherished face. “Of course I can say no. I did say no to you before.”

“Not where it counts,” Crowley said, “not when you aren’t with your back against the wall. You’ve never disappointed me, angel. Saying no to something you don’t enjoy or you don’t feel up to won’t disappoint me either.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Crowley sighed again.

“I remember what you said about playing with me before talking it out. _I could see what you needed, and not giving it to you was just so difficult._ Your words. You can’t stop yourself from giving me whatever I need–or anyone you’ve ever been with, for that matter. You know that. You told me as much.”

Aziraphale pulled back again, but Crowley didn’t try to hold him back this time. Deep lines were burrowing his forehead now, brows scrunched up in a frown, but that unbearable sadness had finally started to melt away a little.

“That wasn’t the same,” Aziraphale answered, in a guarded, still voice.

“What was the difference?” Crowley pressed on. “You tried to be the kind of partner Robert wanted, the kind of Dom your subs wanted. Every single time. And you know how dangerous it is, but you still couldn’t help yourself.”

Aziraphale flinched, anger and betrayal flitting through his face.

“Wait a minute, now. It’s not fair, using that against me. It only happened once. And I have learnt from it. I told you my limits, didn’t I?”

“And you said time and time again that you would consider pushing them a bit, if that made me happy.”

Aziraphale scoffed. He glanced at the hands twisting in his lap, then picked up his cup and took a sip of tea, for obvious want of something to do with them. His spine was so straight it looked one inch away from snapping in half.

“How little credit you give me. I know myself. I am well aware of just how far I can go without breaking.”

“But do you _want_ to?” Crowley shot back, unwilling to back down. He felt charged up, almost manic. He’d never had that sort of discussion with anyone. He’d never pressed so hard in his life, not like that. He’d never cared enough to try. “Do you _want_ to push yourself past whatever you are comfortable with?”

“You are making such a fuss out of something so simple. If it made you happy...”

“_There is nothing wrong with having limits, with establishing boundaries. There is nothing wrong with saying no to something you don’t enjoy._ You remember those words, don’t you?”

Aziraphale looked away, something deeply uncomfortable flashing in his face. He scratched the rim of his mug with a thumbnail, then put it back down.

“That’s different.”

“How’s that different?” Crowley snapped. “And since we’re at it, how’s that different from me knowing that you’re not enjoying what we are doing but simply enduring it? How’s _that_ supposed to make me feel?”

“Well, I’m sorry!” Aziraphale exploded, jumping up on his feet and unconsciously taking a step back. “I’m sorry I’m not the Dom you’d like me to be. I’m sorry I don’t enjoy what I’m supposed to be enjoying.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.” Crowley took a deep sight. “Sit down, Aziraphale.”

For a moment it looked like Aziraphale was about to bolt, but then he came closer, gingerly resuming his place by Crowley’s side.

“Angel, I don’t want you to be anyone but yourself,” Crowley said, pulling one of Aziraphale’s hands in his lap and cradling it between his own. “I want you to be honest, though. I want you to say no to anything you don’t enjoy.”

Crowley could see it, now, how much damage he’d done by insisting on tagging along for Christmas, how much it had cost Aziraphale to put his foot down. Every single word he’d heard the night before came back to haunt him. All that guilt, all that shame. All that sorrow.

“But if it’s something that makes you happy...” Aziraphale tried to protest, but softly, now. Quietly.

“It won’t,” Crowley answered, bringing Aziraphale’s hand to his lips, pressing kisses to the knuckles. “Nothing that you don’t enjoy can make me happy. And enduring it doesn’t make you a better Dom. It just makes you a miserable one, and I have no interest in that.”

It seemed for a moment that Aziraphale was going to argue, but then he deflated. He leant forward, cupping Crowley’s cheek with almost painful tenderness before placing a soft kiss to his lips.

“My darling Crowley,” he murmured against his lips. “I’ll try.”

Crowley smiled at him, cradling the hand still pressed against his cheek and kissing Aziraphale back.

“Thank you,” he whispered back. He wasn’t naive enough to think that Aziraphale would learn to respect his own boundaries overnight, but at least they’d talked about it. Given their own track record in speaking out about their problems, that was a proper milestone. It was probably a bit silly, but Crowley was obnoxiously proud of them both for making it that far.

“I’m sorry you had such a shite Christmas,” Crowley said after a while, low and ever so quiet in the space between their lips. “I’ll try to make your New Year’s Eve a bit better.”

“You’re already doing a marvellous job of it,” Aziraphale quipped back, scooting close enough to wrap an arm around Crowley’s back. “And it was all right. I’m just a bit oversensitive whenever my family is involved, that’s all.”

Crowley didn’t like that answer. Didn’t like it one bit.

“Angel...”

“Fine,” Aziraphale gave up with a sigh, much sooner than Crowley had expected. “It was all rather terrible. I’m not used to spending so much time with my family anymore, and they can be a little... abrasive with their opinions. They don’t like my job, my flat, my partner, and they weren’t exactly shy about letting me know all about it.” Aziraphale broke off, squeezing Crowley just a little bit as an obvious apology. For what, Crowley didn’t know, since it wasn’t his fault his siblings were a bunch of wankers. “It was barely more than a handful of meals together and a Church service, but it felt like a small eternity.”

Crowley picked up his mug, sipping at his now cool coffee as he thought about what to say next. Aziraphale took advantage of that small pause to do the same, and judging by his grimace his tea had probably become a revolting sludge by then. He put his mug back on the table and left it there, half full with some sort of disgusting-looking whitish concoction.

“Was your mother there?” Crowley asked after a moment, using the mug he was still sipping from to hide just how keen his interest was about that particular subject.

Aziraphale sighed. He looked more tired than sad, now, as though all that unbearable shame and impossible sorrow had bled through the cracks the moment the dam had been broken.

“She was,” he answered, leaning on Crowley ever so slightly and pressing the top of his head against Crowley’s temple. “She barely said anything, but she didn’t really need to. I know she doesn’t approve.”

“How do you know, if she doesn’t actually speak about it at all?” Crowley argued, slamming back whatever was left of his disgustingly cool coffee before placing the empty cup on the table and making a grab for Aziraphale’s free hand.

“As I said, she doesn’t need to,” Aziraphale answered, low and subdued. He allowed Crowley to cradle his hand between his own, and sighed deeply at the gentle touch. “She was awarded the title of Emeritus Professor after teaching for more than forty years in the Faculty of Divinity at Cambridge. She’s the world’s leading scholar in Biblical Studies, wrote seminal work on the topic. The most prestigious universities beg her for a visit. She doesn’t really need to say what she thinks about her son checking out old books to students, now, does she?”

There was an old heartbreak in Aziraphale’s words, old enough that it didn’t bleed anymore, but it hurt the way badly healed wounds hurt–with a deep-seated, throbbing sort of ache. Crowley wanted to tell him that maybe his mother didn’t even care, but he wasn’t sure how much that was going to help. He brought Aziraphale’s hand to his lips, instead, trying to convey some measure of comfort through touch.

“What I really couldn’t bear was the way they talked about you in front of her, though,” Aziraphale added, hand tightening around Crowley’s side almost hard enough to hurt. “I can stand having my work being belittled, my life, my choices, but not you. I’m sorry I took the coward way out. I should’ve said something.”

Old scars, and older wounds–the far-reaching, treacherous sorts that only family could actually inflict. It tugged at Crowley’s heart, hearing Aziraphale talking about him the same way he talked about his job, like something he wasn’t allowed to love.

“It doesn’t matter, angel.”

“It matters to _me_.” A beat, then Aziraphale let out a deep, shivering sigh. “But it’s too late now, I suppose. Whatever happened, happened.” He pressed a tender kiss to Crowley’s temple. “How was your Christmas, dear? Not too awful, I hope.”

There it was again, the perfect chance to tell Aziraphale what he’d been up to. Crowley opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. He didn’t know how to say what he wanted, but even more than that, didn’t _want_ to put whatever he’d been silently building in his own mind into words. It felt a bit like bad luck to try and speak about it out loud. So he decided to talk about something else, instead.

“It was alright,” he said, distractedly petting Aziraphale’s hand in his lap. “Christmas never meant much to me.”

“I hope you didn’t feel too lonely...”

“I missed you, if that’s what you’re aiming at,” Crowley frankly answered, “but not because it was Christmas. I like having you around. I like seeing you often. I like to have your hands on me on regular basis.”

A beat, as Aziraphale nuzzling into his cheek turned slower, pointed.

“Did you enjoy playing like that? Over the phone?” he whispered, lips brushing against Crowley’s carefully shaved skin.

“Yes,” Crowley answered, “and no.”

That put a stop to whatever was brewing between them rather effectively. Aziraphale pulled back slowly from him, retrieving the arm he’d kept wrapped around Crowley’s waist. Crowley missed the touch for a beat, before Aziraphale’s newly freed hand joined the other in Crowley’s lap.

“Tell me about it,” Aziraphale said, very clear, and very gentle.

Crowley took a deep breath.

“Oh, I enjoyed talking dirty over the phone just fine, so whenever you want to get a little fun that way you can count me in,” he started, lips pulled into a crooked smile. “And I think I enjoyed being forbidden to come. It was... interesting, to be played that way. Intense. I felt...” A beat, as Crowley swallowed thickly around a lump in his throat. “I felt vulnerable. Even more than usual, in a way. I liked that. I liked feeling that powerless, that strung out.”

There was colour high on Aziraphale’s cheeks, but his eyes were focused entirely on Crowley, almost unblinking.

“But...?”

“I didn’t like being alone, after,” Crowley rushed out, feeling a pang of directionless embarrassment flicker though his mind before slipping away. He wasn’t ashamed of being needy, not anymore. “I think... I think I dropped. I felt lonely. And... sad.” He shook his head. He sounded like a whining child, but he didn’t know how to explain the way he’d felt in any other way. “I’m not explaining this right.”

“Not at all, darling,” Aziraphale replied, his voice calm and impossibly soothing. “I think you’re doing a marvellous job of it. It was too much, then? That sort of play?”

Crowley thought about it for a moment, then shook his head again.

“Not exactly. I think I’d like to try again, if you were there, with me. Touching me.” Another deep breath, cut short by a shiver. “Playing with me.”

Aziraphale didn’t answer immediately. His eyes looked just a little bit wild, just a little bit hungry, as he thought that over.

“I think I would enjoy that, too,” he rumbled, eventually. His voice was so low, so rough. It sent shivers down Crowley’s spine. “I don’t like much not having you close when we play, either. A bit of fun over the phone is one thing, but playing like that... It felt so jarring to leave, and even more so when I couldn’t rightly see you.” He let out a deep sight, effectively shattering the tension of the moment. “I shouldn’t have played with you, not while I was like that. Not without discussing it first.”

“We are discussing it now,” Crowley answered. “You can’t expect us to have a perfect scene every single time. We are bound to have some unpleasant experiences while we learn what we like.” He shrugged. “It might be kinky stuff, but it’s still sex. I don’t have much experience in relationships, but I was made to believe that the more you shag one specific person, the better you know what to do and what to avoid. Or something like that.”

Aziraphale chuckled, and Crowley couldn’t help but smile broadly at that.

“My wise love,” Aziraphale said, a little smirk pulling at his soft lips. “You’re right, of course. That’s why it’s so important to evaluate a scene, especially at the beginning. But negotiation is vital. I should’ve known better than to skip it.” A deep, painful sigh. “And I know I haven’t been very good to you after. I should’ve been more attentive, should’ve done a more thorough follow-up. But I couldn’t focus. And that night, I know I should’ve refused to play, but it felt so wonderful, so lovely, to be able to do something for you, to feel like I could be _good_ for someone. I felt so lost, and playing with you like that... it felt for a moment as if I were home again. It felt too soothing, too reassuring to pass.”

“Hey, ‘s alright,” Crowley said, unheeding of what was tumbling out of his mouth in his frenzy to chase away that overly familiar guilt from Aziraphale’s eyes. “I knew you didn’t feel like it, but I pushed anyway. You felt so far away, and I didn’t know... I didn’t know what to do. Fucking is my default solution for more problems than what’s strictly healthy, I think.”

“What a pair we make,” Aziraphale chuckled, pressing his forehead against Crowley’s. “All right, then. We’ll do better from now on. Anything else?”

Crowley considered for a moment whether to carry on or to leave it at that. But they had come so far, after all. A pity to stop now.

_In for a penny, in for a pound._

“Yesterday,” he started, blinking Aziraphale’s blue eyes into focus as he pulled away just enough to level a very serious gaze on Crowley. “I liked the, ah, the spanking. It was good. But the rest made me... uncomfortable.”

Aziraphale frowned.

“I thought you wanted to be punished.”

“Yeah, but not that way. Not like you were... angry at me.”

Crowley saw the moment it hit Aziraphale, the actual truth of what had happened.

“You didn’t enjoy the scene at all. Even before I broke it off.”

It was just as devastating as Crowley had thought it would be, the horror, the guilt in Aziraphale’s eyes. Crowley forced himself to look, instead of glancing away.

“As I said, I did like the spanking. Being bent over you knee, that kind of vulnerability.... it was good. Really, really good. But everything else... well. Not really, no.”

“Why didn’t you stop me, then?”

“Because I wanted to make you happy,” Crowley spit out, voice low and coated in misery. Aziraphale’s eyes looked stricken and unbearably sad as he squeezed Crowley’s hand. “Do you understand, now?”

A long moment, suspended in time, before Aziraphale shattered the silence with a deep sigh.

“Yes.” He brought Crowley’s hand to his lips, kissed it with devastating tenderness. “I’m sorry, darling. We should’ve negotiated that scene, too, before trying it out.”

Crowley shook his head.

“I’m not sure I would’ve said something about it. I suspected, perhaps, but I had no idea it would hit me that hard, being at the receiving end of your... displeasure. I think I like it much better when you’re happy with me.”

“I like it much better, too. Especially since I don’t have to work so hard to fake it.” Another kiss, and another, and another. “I’m so proud of you, I truly am. Anything else is a lie. I could try for you, if you wanted, but...”

“We talked about that,” Crowley chided him, not unkindly. “Did you enjoy that scene, angel? Or better yet, would you have enjoyed it, if you had been in another state of mind?”

“I don’t think so, no. Which is why negotiation is important.”

“But would you have told me the truth, if we had negotiated that scene beforehand?”

A frown marred for a moment Aziraphale’s forehead, then he conceded Crowley’s point with a sigh.

“Fair enough.”

“That said,” Crowley pressed on, feeling something thicken in his blood, something hot and a bit wicked, “I think we could find a way to spin that entire spanking business in something we both enjoy.”

There was molten heat bristling in Aziraphale’s eyes as he stared at him, colour dancing high on his soft cheeks.

“I could bend you on my knee and tell you how good you are, how wonderful, taking your punishment so well, while I spank that lovely bottom of yours until it’s darker than your hair, until I’m sure you’ll feel the shape of my hand on your flesh the morning after,” Aziraphale purred, voice so low and rumbling that it made the fine hairs on Crowley’s nape stand on end. “What do you think about that?”

Heat slammed into Crowley like a wall, heart skipping a beat before starting to hammer into his chest. He tried to lick his lips, but his mouth felt suddenly dry. He had to swallow around a lump in his throat twice before finding his voice.

“I think that sounds like a plan,” he croaked, breathless and suddenly charged up like a battery. The mood had turned around so quickly he was struggling to adapt, body slipping into overdrive while his brain tried and failed to catch up.

Aziraphale brought Crowley’s hands to his mouth, again, but this time Crowley felt the silky slide of his own sleeves down his forearm into his toes, and each kiss deep under his skin.

“That’s what you like,” Aziraphale purred, the velvety drag of his lips against the vulnerable skin of Crowley’s inner wrist sparking a shiver down Crowley’s spine. “Stern, but loving. Isn’t it?”

Crowley’s head was spinning, his flesh _pulling_ towards Aziraphale. He needed to be touched with a need so violent and all-consuming it raged like wildfire.

“Yes.”

“My darling boy, so sweet, so eager,” Aziraphale purred, letting go of Crowley’s hand to frame his cheeks with strong, tender hands. “How could I _ever_ be displeased with you? You always try so hard.” A kiss, delicate, feather-like, placed like a gift against Crowley’s lips. “You want to be good for me, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

Another kiss, gentle, lingering just a little longer. Crowley felt the delicate pull of Aziraphale’s lips for an exquisite moment as he backed away.

“You want to please me, to be my perfect, darling boy. Don’t you?”

“Yes.”

Another kiss, even longer, but still tender, still unbearably soft. Crowley was hard in his pants, already aching. One breath away from begging for a touch.

“You do please me, sweetheart. Anything you do pleases me.” Another kiss, and another, and another, falling upon his lips like an April shower. “And you need me so much. My good boy, my needy boy. You have me. All of me. My darling Crowley.”

Crowley whined at that, a jumbled sound that wasn’t even trying to be a word. He felt the press of Aziraphale’s thumb against his chin, holding his mouth open, and then Aziraphale was kissing him, properly, deeply, his tongue slipping inside and stroking Crowley’s in a slow, thorough drag. Crowley groaned into the kiss, and was rewarded with the strong grip of Aziraphale’s stocky hand around his nape, firm and delicious and impossible to move.

The kiss seemed to drag on, and on, and on. Crowley was only vaguely aware of the lapels of his robe being pushed apart, of a warm palm pressing against his chest, eager and proprietary. He felt gentle fingers stroking his nipples, tangling in the dark hairs covering his chest, and then worming their way higher, until a firm thumb pressed straight against his Adam’s apple. Crowley gasped in the kiss, and whined again, soft and shivering, when Aziraphale finally pulled back.

“Let’s go to bed, darling,” he rumbled, cheeks pink, eyes bright and almost feverish as he stared at Crowley. He stole another kiss, a quick one, obviously unable to help himself, before getting back on unsteady feet.

Inevitably, that brought a particularly interesting part of Aziraphale’s anatomy directly in Crowley’s line of sight. Aziraphale was hard in his pants, thick cock straining the line of his pressed trousers, and Crowley was hit anew by a wave of hunger so rabid it felt almost like an electric shock.

“Getting into bed in the middle of the day?” Crowley drawled, allowing Aziraphale to seize his hand, pulling him on his feet and dragging him to the bedroom. “How decadent of you.”

That elicited a snort from Aziraphale, but didn’t even slow him down. He was soon pushing Crowley onto the bed, on his back, his black robe opening around him like a fan.

“I want to make love to you,” Aziraphale whispered, climbing onto the bed as well and ranging over Crowley on all four. He pressed another kiss to Crowley’s lips, fast and messy, impatient fingers struggling with Crowley’s belt.

“_Yes_,” Crowley hissed, throwing his arms around Aziraphale’s neck and dragging him down. He wanted to feel his weight, to be nailed to the bed by it. He wanted Aziraphale naked in his arms. “Get out of these clothes and fuck me. It’s been too long.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed, pulling himself away from Crowley’s grip to sit back on his heels and work on his bowtie. Crowley didn’t waste a moment, following him suit and starting to unbutton his shirt. The damnable thing was way too difficult to pry open, in Crowley’s opinion, but soon it was sliding down Aziraphale’s thick shoulders, baring his barrel chest, mottled with curly white hairs. His breast was a little soft, but Crowley liked that, liked the way the skin graciously gave when he pulled at those deliciously vulnerable nipples. He was already rolling one between his fingers and sucking the other into his mouth as Aziraphale tackled his own belt with trembling fingers.

“My darling Crowley, how good you are to me,” Aziraphale gasped, a shudder bristling in his voice, as he unbuckled his trousers and struggled to get rid of them. Crowley tried to lend a hand, but he was probably more a hindrance than help, fumbling blindly with clumsy fingers as he covered Aziraphale’s chest in biting kisses. He remembered the last time they had been together, the dark bruises Crowley had left on those pale shoulders as he sucked onto the skin between savage thrusts, hard thrusts, the sort Aziraphale liked best, and he felt almost frenzied at the thought that they were probably gone by now. He clutched Aziraphale’s thick waist in his arms and latched his lips on Aziraphale’s pulse, sucking the blood onto the surface, as he kicked at Aziraphale’s trousers in a tangle of limbs.

Eventually Aziraphale was exactly as Crowley wanted him–naked and weighting on top of him, skin pressed tight against skin. He was hard, they both were, Crowley’s erection still trapped in his pants while Aziraphale’s burrowed hot and exquisitely stiff into Crowley’s belly. Crowley sank his fingers in soft curls and kissed those yielding lips, deep and devouring, and Aziraphale answered in kind.

“Do you have any lubricant, darling?” Aziraphale eventually asked, voice low and rough against Crowley’s lips. Crowley took a deep breath, ribbons of electricity sparking under his skin at the thought of having those thick fingers once again pressed deep inside him.

“Drawer,” he bit out, relaxing by increments under Aziraphale, muscles struggling to let go of the tension. He was still wearing his robe, and was vaguely aware of the whisper of silk at his elbows, where the wide sleeves had ended up pooling.

His eyes were drifting close, but he didn’t fully realise it until he felt the shift in the weight pinning him down, and the soft sound of a drawer being opened.

“You have a dildo in here, how lovely!” Aziraphale chirped, suddenly monopolising the entirety of Crowley’s attention. “Will you allow me to use it on you, later on?”

Hunger and at least a dozen mental pictures of himself being draped on Aziraphale’s knees while that stupid dildo he’d perhaps used twice since he’d bought it was worked steadily into his body slammed into him like a wall, punching a groan out of his mouth. He covered his eyes with his forearm and tried to ride out that impossible surge of heat, distantly grateful he’d managed not to come into his pants like a blasted teenager.

“Fuck,” he eventually wheezed out, as Aziraphale retrieved lube and condoms from the drawer and carefully pushed it close.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he quipped, the bastard, as he pressed a chaste kiss against Crowley’s cheek. That was an entirely too wholesome gesture from someone who had been gleefully considering sticking a piece of plastic into Crowley’s arse not five seconds before, and Crowley grumbled under his breath at the touch, even as he carefully peeled his forearm away from his eyes.

He was welcomed by a loving face, blushing cheeks and wicked eyes. Aziraphale tangled their fingers together as he pressed Crowley’s hands to the mattress, kissing him filthy and deep.

“Do you want to peak on my fingers, sweetheart?” Aziraphale purred, brushing kisses down Crowley’s neck. “Or my cock?”

Crowley’s first attempt at an answer came out as a jumbled string of vowels, but he was a bit more successful when he tried again.

“Fingers,” he choked out, straining under the gentle press of Aziraphale’s lips trailing down his chest, the firm touch of his hands across his belly, his sides.

“Anything you wish, my dearest one,” Aziraphale whispered, the naked adoration in his voice hitting Crowley unfairly low. He arched his back as Aziraphale nipped at the loose skin of his navel, yelping in helpless pleasure as his straining cock was palmed by a strong, warm hand. “Oh, already so hard, already aching. You need this so much, need to be touched, to be filled, don’t you?”

“_Yes_,” Crowley wailed, barely aware of the gentle drag of cotton down his thighs, as his cock sprang free. He gasped as his legs were firmly parted, as a palm wrapped around his cock and gave it a few slow pumps. Lips were pressed hard against his thigh, warm and wet, and teeth sank in soft, vulnerable flesh. The pleasure was delicious, raw and violent like a storm.

“How gorgeous you are, how lovely, giving you over so perfectly,” Aziraphale whispered between biting kisses. Crowley distantly heard the snap of a cap being opened, and then a damp, cool pressure between his cheeks, rubbing tenderly against his hole. “Relax, love. Let me give you this.”

Something between a gasp and a sob tumbled out Crowley’s lips as he tried to comply, to give access to Aziraphale’s careful fingers. Every whisper was a gush of warm breath against oversensitive skin, and Crowley was panting softly in the silence as Aziraphale screwed his index inside, so very slowly, allowing Crowley to savour the slide. He clenched around it, revelling in the way it split him open, the stretch of it, and pulled at his sheets as Aziraphale carefully pulled it out and thrust it back inside together with his middle finger.

“You take my fingers so well, love,” Aziraphale hummed, fingering him ever so slowly, ever so gently, but deep, and thorough. Crowley felt the drag of every thrust in his teeth. He cried out when Aziraphale cradled his softening cock with his free hand, nuzzling at the encroaching foreskin, kissing his bollocks. “Now, let’s see if we can do something about this.”

Crowley wasn’t particularly shocked to discover that Aziraphale could indeed. He was soon taking three fingers up his arse, and his stiffening cock was dripping a steady dribble of precome in the hollow of his belly as Aziraphale pumped it lazily and sucked on his tight balls.

“Here you are, sweetheart,” Aziraphale crooned, crooking his fingers just right to deliver a devastating hard thrust against Crowley’s prostate. “Here you are.”

Blinding pleasure surged into Crowley’s belly like a wave, and he couldn’t help but cry out as it washed over him. He was hard again, aching, and every stab of Aziraphale’s fingers hit his prostate with an impossibly accurate aim. He felt wound up impossibly tight, shuddering in his silky robe as Aziraphale licked a wet line up his shaft and then pressed his lips against Crowley’s dripping cockhead. He wailed at the feeling of a hot tongue pressing into his slit, toes curling as his back arched and his fingers sank without any conscious command in Aziraphale’s lustrous curls.

“Angel, I’m going to, I’m going to,” he blabbered, between one thrust against his prostate and the next, as Aziraphale swallowed him down to the root and then started to bob his head in a lazy, sticky rhythm. His mouth felt so wet and hot and tight and impossibly good, sucking him just right, tongue swirling around Crowley’s shaft and just underneath his cockhead every time Aziraphale pulled back. He was taking Crowley so deep, without even a hint of gag reflexes, and Crowley really, really wasn’t going to last.

“_Angel_,” he wailed, as a final warning, but Aziraphale merely tightened his lips around the base of Crowley’s cock and sucked hard, fingers thrusting impossibly deep.

Pleasure spun in Crowley’s body like a ribbon being unravelled, spiking white-hot and pervading before slowly subsiding. It left him boneless and panting, sweat beading on cooling skin as he revelled in the aftertaste of a devastating orgasm. He felt spread open, happy, and yet still hungry, still wanting. Still needy. He whined a little at the jostling of Aziraphale’s fingers inside him, but he was grateful Aziraphale had left them there, so very grateful, as Aziraphale lapped the precome off his belly and trailed soft kisses up his chest and to his lips.

“So beautiful,” Aziraphale whispered against his mouth, “so lovely. My Crowley. My darling Crowley.”

“Angel,” Crowley gasped, licking his own taste off Aziraphale’s tongue. He was still oversensitive, but now that he’d come he could focus on the feeling of being spread open by Aziraphale’s fingers, really focus on it, and oh, it was glorious. He clenched around them, and swallowed with a kiss the gasp that came tumbling out of Aziraphale’s mouth.

“Fuck me,” he growled, when Aziraphale pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. His pale face was flushed so beautifully, and he was cradling Crowley close with a hand under his nape, while the other was still pressed between his legs. Aziraphale was still hard, if a little wilted. Nothing that a few strokes couldn’t fix, Crowley thought, as he reached down and cradled that lovely thick prick in his palm. The angle made for some clumsy handling, but Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind as he gasped into Crowley’s cheek and fucked his fist in a handful of helpless thrusts.

“All right,” he panted, “all right. Let me get some fresh lubricant and a prophylactic.”

“You don’t have to,” Crowley blurted out, mouth going on autopilot. “I mean, I’d rather do without, if that’s... if that’s alright with you.”

Aziraphale stilled at that, then pressed a kiss against Crowley’s forehead, the tip of his nose.

“Dear heart,” he whispered, impossibly, atrociously tender, “anything you want.”

Crowley couldn’t help the little whine that escaped his lips as Aziraphale pulled his hand back, a stab of pleasure running up his spine. It was still on the wrong side of too much, his body wired up and oversensitive, but he was quickly tumbling down that slope, and soon it would be just right. He felt loose, sloppy wet, but Aziraphale’s eyes were impossibly hungry as they took him in, sprawled on the bed still halfway in his robe with his thighs spread open and his soft cock lying on his belly.

“Days, we are going to spend entire _days_ in here,” Aziraphale rumbled, low and rough, as he blindly reached for the tube and squeezed some lube on his hand. “I want to gorge myself on you. I want to make love to you, again and again and again, in any way you will have me.”

The motion of his hand was mesmerizing. Crowley couldn’t help but stare as it slid up and down that hard, leaking cock, slathering the dark skin with a shiny coat. Aziraphale twisted his wrist, squeezing the tip, and Crowley reflexively licked his lips.

“C’mon, angel,” he groaned. “Fuck me.”

A chuckle, deep and dark.

“As you wish,” Aziraphale purred, one hand wrapped tight against his cock as the other found Crowley’s, tangling their fingers together and pressing it against the mattress. Aziraphale felt massive between his thighs, thick and solid and deliciously heavy, and Crowley wasted no time in wrapping his legs around those generous hips and trapping him there.

The first press of a blunt cockhead against his loose hole tore a groan out of his throat. It was echoed by Aziraphale, if softer, more strained, and Crowley tangled the fingers of his free hand around thick curls as Aziraphale pushed slowly inside.

It felt so good. So impossibly good. The slide of flesh against flesh was divine, and Crowley gasped, fingers tightening around Aziraphale’s curls as he felt the inexorable pressure of that thick cock split him open. It was so _big_. Not long enough for the slide to last more than a handful of second, as slow as it was, but it stretched him to perfection. It would probably sting if he wasn’t so loose, so relaxed, but as it was he felt nothing more than a throbbing sort of ache, deep and wonderful, as his flesh made space for Aziraphale’s gorgeous prick.

“Darling, oh, you feel so lovely,” Aziraphale gasped against his cheek, hand grabbing a handful of Crowley’s arsecheek as he stilled in Crowley’s arms. He was waiting for Crowley to adjust, but he didn’t really need to.

“You can move, angel,” Crowley whispered, placing a ferocious kiss against that well-loved cheek. Aziraphale gasped, but he didn’t need to be told twice. He started a thorough, unhurried sort of rhythm, each stroke a sublime drag of skin on skin as his entire body rubbed against Crowley’s. The angle was all wrong for Aziraphale to hit Crowley’s prostate in any way that wasn’t a brush in passing, but Aziraphale wasn’t trying to–he probably meant to steer away from it, to avoid Crowley some unpleasant overstimulation. Crowley appreciated the thought. Revelling in the delicious feeling of being fucked deep and slow was exactly what he wanted, right then and there.

And what a luscious, addictive feeling that was. Crowley couldn’t remember the last time he had trusted someone enough to take their naked cock up his arse–probably a decade, if not longer. It felt like forever. And he was drunk on it, on the knowledge that there was nothing between them now, that Aziraphale was pressed deep inside him in a way that finally, finally sated his ravenous anger, and was going to come inside him deep enough he would _feel_ it. Such a heady thought. He wasn’t completely sure about it, but he didn’t think he’d ever allowed anyone to do that. Not that he couldn’t remember, at least. Which was almost the same.

They were holding onto each other so tight, as Aziraphale’s thrusts picked up the pace. Aziraphale had let go of Crowley’s hand and arse to gather him in his arms, hands hard and bumpy under Crowley’s back, and Crowley was sinking his fingers in giving flesh, grabbing handful of Aziraphale wherever he could reach–his shoulders, his back, his sides. Aziraphale was hot under Crowley’s palms, damp with sweat as his muscles worked beneath the skin. Then Crowley’s hands reached Aziraphale’s arse, and he was clutching that glorious flesh for dear life as Aziraphale properly started to pound into him.

“I’ll need to stop soon,” Aziraphale warned him, somewhere near his ear, his damp forehead pressed against Crowley’s cheek. “I’m close.”

“If you think you’re pulling out now, you’d better think again,” Crowley hissed back. “You’re giving it to me, all of it.”

Aziraphale groaned at that, hips snapping in a handful of rabid thrusts before picking up a somewhat even rhythm. Crowley held him close, closer, revelling in the deep push and pull of hard flesh as Aziraphale groaned into the heated skin of his cheek, his neck, lips grazing him in a butterfly touch as Aziraphale’s hot damp breath lingered in the tiny space between them. The hard thrusts were starting to slam against Crowley’s prostate with a little more strength, if with an aim that was still far from precise, and every close hit sparked a ribbon of ecstatic pleasure in his belly.

Then Aziraphale truly started to fuck into him, hard, for a few glorious seconds, before going stiff above him and finally slowing down. Crowley felt it, then, the spasm of flesh inside him, as something hot, something thick, spread between his walls. It was a vague sort of feeling, of the blink-and-you-miss-it kind, but Crowley was too focused on whatever was going on to allow something like to escape his attention. He sighed at it, tenderly stroking Aziraphale’s back as he all but collapsed on top of Crowley.

“I’m sorry, I must be crushing you,” Aziraphale gasped after a moment, but Crowley merely shushed him, gripping him even tighter. Aziraphale wasn’t going anywhere, and if he thought he was, he had another thing coming.

“Stay, angel,” he murmured, “for a while.”

He felt Aziraphale relax on top of him, muscles properly giving out as he nuzzled into Crowley’s sweaty neck in a tired drag. He was still hard inside Crowley, taking his time to soften.

“All right.”

Time seemed to lumber onwards, after that. Crowley listened as Aziraphale’s gasping breaths slowed down, basking in the heat his damp body gave out like a furnace. He tangled his fingers in sweaty curls and gently pulled until their lips slotted together, treading lazy, languorous kisses, too worn-out for anything that wasn’t the barest hint of tongue.

They both felt it, when Aziraphale’s prick finally softened enough to let some of his come dribble out, even as it stayed in place. It didn’t always slip out on its own, even soft. It was too thick. Aziraphale pressed idle kisses to Crowley’s neck, his chest, and eventually disentangled himself enough to sit tiredly on his hunches. The change in position was enough to pull his cock free, and Crowley felt it clearly this time, the trickle of hot, sticky come dripping down his cleft. He didn’t need to look at Aziraphale’s enthralled face to know that he was looking. His pale skin was flushed pink, his eyes dark and hungry. His soft cock looked wet, shiny softly in the early afternoon light filtering through the window.

Crowley had grown a little more comfortable with the concept of being examined in such an intimate way, but having come trickling out of him was a brand new and vaguely unsettling experience. He tried to close his legs, but he’d barely shifted that Aziraphale’s hands shot to his thighs, seizing the tender flesh and keeping Crowley spread open for his pleasure.

“Oh, my darling,” Aziraphale sighed, low and bristling with almost painful heat. “How lovely you look, wearing something of mine. I wish I had a plug I could slip in you, keep you that way for a while.”

The thought hit Crowley like a punch, breath sticking in his throat for a long while before he was finally able to suck in some damp, heavy air. He felt almost dizzy with it, head spinning, cock twitching against his belly. Heat was spreading into his flesh.

“Nngh,” he mumbled, then tried again, “Yes. I mean, I wouldn’t be opposed.” Aziraphale pressed his thumb to the mess dribbling out of Crowley’s hole, making his voice crack. “If, you know, you wanted to.”

“Oh, I do,” Aziraphale answered, almost distractedly. Crowley gasped at the feeling of Aziraphale’s thumb breaching him, pushing a little come inside. “I’ll keep that in mind, then.” A flash of blue eyes, entirely too bright for the hunger simmering right underneath. “Would it be all right if I used my mouth on you, darling?”

Crowley first thought he’d misunderstood, then realised that he’d understood perfectly, and nearly got a heart attack at the notion that Aziraphale intended to eat his own come out of him.

_Jesus fucking Christ._

“Sure,” he choked out, heart hammering in his chest, skin bristling with helpless heat. That was so filthy, so deliciously filthy. He was pretty certain, this time, that no one had ever offered to do that to him. He’d surely never done it to anyone.

“Such a dear,” Aziraphale purred, before bending down between Crowley’s thighs and licking a long, hot line from his taint to his balls. Crowley nearly shot out of the bed at the feeling, pleasure and arousal flashing through his flesh, under his skin, impossibly hot and viciously hungry. He clamped his hands hard onto the covers and groaned out loud as Aziraphale pulled the scant flesh of Crowley’s cheeks apart with his thumbs and licked inside, where Crowley was tender and well used and impossibly sensitive.

“Angel, fuck, angel, oh God,” he wailed, physical pleasure warring with the helpless knowledge that Aziraphale was licking him clean with nearly overwhelming eagerness. He felt his cock twitch against his belly as Aziraphale used his fingers to pull Crowley impossibly open, to reach deeper and deeper with his tongue, and Crowley was going to pass out. Again. While sporting an erection. Again.

It took a ridiculously short amount of time for that touch to become too much, too sharp, too impossibly hot. Crowley was gasping and panting in the thick air, feet kicking out and dragging against the quilt, the delicious friction of fine-waved cotton against the soles, while his body snapped tighter and tighter, his hard cock leaking once again onto sweat-beaded skin. He felt sopping wet between his cheeks, but Aziraphale wasn’t stopping, he was eating him out in some sort of frenzy that Crowley felt deep into his bone. He reached down, pulling gently at Aziraphale’s damp curls.

“Angel,” he gasped, pulling until he got the attention of those blue eyes, “angel.”

“Too much, love?” Aziraphale said, voice low and impossibly tender. His warm breath brushed against Crowley’s hard bollocks like a touch, making him shiver. Aziraphale was still playing with his hole with gentle, careful fingers.

“Yes, ah, no. No.” A deep breath, cracking in the middle like a hiccup. “I need... I need to come. Again. Can I touch myself, angel?”

Aziraphale’s eyes were so dark now, sparking with such a deep, shivering hunger Crowley felt it in his marrow.

“I see.” A tender kiss against one of Crowley’s balls, entirely too gentle for how filthy that was. “How good you are, asking for permission. My darling boy. Of course you can, love.” Another kiss, to the paper-thin skin between his testicles. “My sweet Crowley. As if I could ever let you suffer.”

It was so much; almost _too_ much. Crowley wailed, a pitiful sound, as Aziraphale peppered his sore rim with biting kisses. Crowley had his own cock in hand without any sort of conscious command being issued from his brain, and was soon pulling at it, hard and fast, as unendurable pleasure sparked deep into his belly.

It didn’t take long. He was too wired up for making it last. A few pulls, a few deep drags of Aziraphale’s tongue inside him and Crowley was tumbling over, spatters of come streaking his chest and dribbling down to the sides. He’d barely made a sound as he peaked, wiped out and wound way too tight for anything louder than that. He melted into the mattress immediately after, boneless and utterly spent. He felt, more than heard, Aziraphale leaving the bed–the thundering of his own heart too loud to let anything else filter through. He’d closed his eyes at some point, and barely let out a weak whine of protest when he felt a wet washcloth being pressed against his aching hole.

“Ssh, darling,” Aziraphale soothed him, somewhere close, “it’s all right. You were so wonderful, so perfect. Let me take care of you, now. My best boy.”

The sound of that loving voice was enough to calm him down, somewhat. He settled, muscles like wet noodles as Aziraphale cleaned him up properly and got him out of his dirty robe, before pushing him under the covers in a flailing jumble of tired limbs.

“Stay there,” Aziraphale whispered, pressing a hand against Crowley’s forehead. “I’ll be right back.”

It felt like a small eternity had passed, by the time the mattress dipped again. Crowley didn’t even open his eyes, merely crawling into Aziraphale’s arms and pressing his nose against the soft curly hairs dappling his bare chest. Aziraphale felt so soft, so warm. So wonderful.

“I love you,” Crowley mumbled, only half aware of what was coming out of his mouth. The gentle touch of Aziraphale’s hands against his back was so impossibly soothing. Crowley felt a little like floating, his mind hazy the way it went when Aziraphale pulled a particularly clever trick out of his Dom hat.

“I love you too, sweetheart,” Aziraphale replied, so very softly, as he pressed a kiss against Crowley’s hair.

It was probably the right moment to shut up, but Crowley really, really couldn’t. He felt too wired up to be quiet, even while being one step away from melting into the covers.

“I think I’ve loved you ever since you pulled my chair, that time at the sushi bar,” he mumbled. “No one had ever been so kind to me.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale sighed, something impossibly, painfully tender simmering in his voice. “My darling, my love. I knew I loved you that day you told me about your family. You looked so shaken. I was afraid you’d think that I had the nerve to ask you for sex, when I invited you in, but I just couldn’t let you go like that. I needed to hold you, keep you close.” Soft, sweet kisses, pressed against Crowley’s forehead, his cheeks, his hair. “You have no idea how difficult it was to let you go. But I didn’t want you to feel like Robert, suffocated by an overbearing partner.”

Crowley remembered that night, how vulnerable, how flayed down to raw, bleeding flesh he’d felt. Such a strange thing to think back to it without pain, now. Without shame.

“Robert was an idiot,” he drawled, “which worked out pretty well for me, all in all.”

A soft chuckle, followed by another kiss, this time on his lips. A vague taste of mint, as Aziraphale briefly swept his tongue inside. Such a considerate man, brushing his teeth before kissing him. As though Crowley cared.

He snuggled tighter against Aziraphale’s chest, head slotting perfectly under his chin, and sighed contentedly.

“It was a Japanese restaurant, by the way, not a sushi bar.”

“Oh, shut up, angel.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [In the woods at Needle's Eye](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23230717) by [uponwhatgrounds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uponwhatgrounds/pseuds/uponwhatgrounds)
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  * [Under](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23409952) by [uponwhatgrounds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uponwhatgrounds/pseuds/uponwhatgrounds)
  * ["Will you let me check?"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23526847) by [uponwhatgrounds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uponwhatgrounds/pseuds/uponwhatgrounds)
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  * [REFL Sketchbook](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23873086) by [uponwhatgrounds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uponwhatgrounds/pseuds/uponwhatgrounds)
  * [REFL Sketchbook II](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24000142) by [uponwhatgrounds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uponwhatgrounds/pseuds/uponwhatgrounds)
  * [REFL Picture Book](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24507106) by [uponwhatgrounds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uponwhatgrounds/pseuds/uponwhatgrounds)
  * [REFL Picture Book II](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25128289) by [uponwhatgrounds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uponwhatgrounds/pseuds/uponwhatgrounds)
  * [REFL Leporello](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26406721) by [uponwhatgrounds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uponwhatgrounds/pseuds/uponwhatgrounds)


End file.
